


How Many Pieces Do You Wish

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [19]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bad Boy Phil Coulson, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Implied Mpreg, Kinda, Leather Jackets, M/M, Past Clint/Phil, Phil Coulson's Leather Jacket, Summer Love, actual dad Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Fifteen years ago circus-boy Clint had a fling with sexy bad-boy Phil. They're inseparable the entire summer until the day Phil reports for his enlistment, leaving only his battered leather jacket behind. Now Clint's daughter Kate is starting ninth grade at a brand new school, and the last thing she wanted was to draw the attention of the assistant principal.





	1. Chapter 1

"DaaaAAAAAaaaad!" 

Clint winces, then sighs, dries his soapy hands on a dishtowel and heads for the stairs. He takes them two at a time until he gets to the landing, though from the plaintive tone of his daughter's wail this is less of an emergency and more of an _'emergency.'_

"What's wrong Katie-Cat?" he asks, tapping out a knock on the half-open door before he enters, even though he's been summoned. 

He learned that lesson early on in the teenage years. 

His Kate is fifteen now and much more mellow than he could have hoped for despite her punk aesthetic, and he counts himself incredibly lucky that thus far they've had an open and honest relationship. It's hard sometimes, raising a young girl on his own, but with the help of a few good friends and only a few episodes of mortifying embarrassment, they've made it work. 

He finds her sitting at her vanity, makeup thick and heavy on her face and her lower lip wobbling dangerously, and his heart aches in his chest for a minute before he smiles in gentle commiseration and approaches the table. 

"You're trying too hard sweetheart," he murmurs, sitting down on the low stool beside her and picking up a removal wipe. "You have beautiful skin and a pretty face – sometimes less is more." 

"I just can't get it right," she whimpers as he carefully removes the make-up from her face. 

It's more than that. 

It's the first day of a new school year, and Clint knows just how worried his daughter is about fitting in. They've been in New York for a couple of months now and the big city is nothing like little, rural Waverly. He doesn't blame her for the anxiety. Personally he thinks she'll fit in just fine – she wears heavy black jump boots that match his own, and has dyed a stripe of her silky black hair bright purple – but he understands. 

"Here," he says quietly, picking up the eyeliner pencil. "Brows, lashes, lips. Frame the face. It's simple – five minutes. That's all you need." 

She holds perfectly still as he applies a tiny bit of mascara to her lashes, a tiny bit of pale pink lip gloss. She's seen all the pictures of him from the circus that still exist – much to his chagrin – knows that he knows what he's doing, but there's still a trust implicit in the moment that he treasures. 

He doesn't think there are many teenage girls out there that would let their dads do their makeup. 

"Are you nervous?" he asks as he caps the gloss, watches her fluff out her hair and peer into the mirror closely. 

_"No."_

Clint bites back a grin – sounds awfully defensive for a denial, but he's not going to call her on it. She's certainly earned the right to be; he'd hated moving her here, taking her from her friends and her home, even if she'd expressed some excitement about this new adventure. Still, after Barney's arrest it had been hard for both of them back in Iowa – small towns and all that – and then he'd been offered a shot at the Olympics and... 

And here they were, first day of school and his brave, bold, beautiful girl is terrified. He can see it in the way her gaze hovers only a few feet off the floor, the way her head is ducked and her shoulders are hunched and he's never seen her like that before, not in the third grade when the kids had found out she only had one gay omega dad, or in the sixth grade when her uncle had driven drunk through the front door of the local bank and severely injured the Mayor's wife in a badly botched robbery attempt. 

On those occasions she'd stood tall, given as good as she'd got. 

Not now. 

"Come with me," he says, before he even realizes what he's going to do. "I've got something that'll help." 

It's a short walk from Katie's room to his – just across the hall really. They're apartment is tiny compared to their sprawling farmhouse back in Waverly, but it's plenty big enough for just the two of them. He's lucky though – he doesn't have much time between her doorway and that of his walk-in closet to second-guess himself, what he's about to offer. 

He's told her of course, told her all about his past and his history with Carson's. About how every year they'd pick up stragglers; rich city kids with nothing better to do but run away from home and follow the circus across the country, until the reality of that nomadic lifestyle sank in and they scrambled back home to their world of privilege and stability. It's not as romantic a story as it sounds, at least not until that summer, that _boy,_ the one who'd stolen Clint's heart. 

_Phil._

To this day Clint isn't sure if that had been his real name. 

He hopes it is. 

He'd fallen in love with the angry young man during those three glorious months, all bad-boy tough on the outside, but he'd always seen better than most. It wasn't hard to catch glimpses of the thoughtful, caring man underneath, the one who worked hard even though he was given the worst jobs to be found on the filthy fairgrounds, the one that always had pets for the aging dancing ponies and touched Clint's body with a gentleness and reverence he hadn't experienced since being orphaned at the age of nine. 

Phil had told him the truth before it went too far – that he had enlisted in the army and was to report to boot camp at summer's end, leaving him with a scant ten weeks to enjoy what he could of the wide, civilian world. At the time it hadn't mattered – Clint was young and careless with his heart – and somehow it hadn't been real until the morning he'd woken up and Phil was gone. 

He never blamed him, not that morning and not twelve weeks later when he'd found out that his omegan male body had done the near-impossible and conceived. He'd had no way to contact Phil, no understanding of what it meant to be pregnant or to raise a child, but there was no option in his mind other than do his very best by his baby. He had loved her father, and had always hoped one day he would see him again, but he never did. 

Now Kate and his memories were all that he had left of that boy, or nearly all. 

At the back of his closet is an old leather bomber jacket, worn and soft as butter. There's an unraveling patch on one shoulder - Captain America's SHIELD - and a row of arrow-shaped safety pins lining the sleeve beneath it, and it's in excellent condition despite the fact that it's now several decades out of style. He's taken good care of it over time, even if he'd outgrown it only two short years after his lover had left it behind, when he'd finally grown into his shoulders. He used to swaddle Kate in it as a toddler until she'd gotten old enough to start asking questions, and then he'd relegated it to the safety of the garment bag it now hung in. 

He doesn't think his daughter _hates_ Phil. 

How can she hate a man she's never met? 

She seems angry though, sometimes, hurt, for him and for herself, for the phantom dad she's never known. 

He doesn't know if it's the right thing to offer her the jacket now, but it had always given him comfort when he needed it, and he thinks today she might be happy to have some armor. 

Besides, it suits her. 

"You don't have to take it," he says as he turns and holds it out to her. Her face is scrunched and uncertain and he wants more than anything to hug her, but he's learned that lesson too. "But... he always said it made him feel braver than he really was. Your dad." 

_"You're_ my dad," she says sternly, and not for the first time he feels like he's being scolded by his teenage daughter. 

He's stunned then when she holds out her arms and lets him slip the jacket up her shoulders, tug the collar into place over her dark purple top. She runs her fingers over the little steel arrows running down the sleeve, her mouth softening, and then she's throwing her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. 

"You're my dad," she mumbles, hugging him tight. "The best dad. The only one I want." 

"Love you little girl," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and trying not to squeeze her too tight for fear she'll be the first to pull away. These moments are coming fewer and further between as she gets older and he refuses to take any one of them for granted. 

"Come on," he says finally, clearing his throat and stepping back. "I made pancakes." 

"Banana nut?" 

"Of course." 

"Yes! See? Best dad ever!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Bubblegum, bubblegum, in a dish, how many pieces do you wish..." 

Kate mutters the skipping rhyme under her breath as she clomps down the crowded hallway in her combat boots, fingers the pack of Double Mint her dad had tucked into her pocket earlier that morning. 

Both are on the list of _Clint Barton's Rules for Dealing_ – the song a way of counting your breathing, fighting off an attack of nerves, the gum the best way of making friends. For a minute she'd thought _he_ was more nervous about dropping her off at school than _she_ was, but then she'd stepped through the doors into the huge, echoing hallway and changed her mind. 

It's weird – no one seems to notice her, to be paying her any attention, but at the same time she feels like she's standing under a spotlight. She'd gotten a map of the school and her locker assignment in a packet mailed to their new apartment so she mostly knows where she's going, but it's still all big and new and loud and there are just so many _people..._

There had only been about thirty kids in her whole grade back in Waverly and she'd known them since kindergarten. 

Here she thinks there will probably be twice as many in every class, and she doesn't know a single one. 

Well there's nothing for it – _Rule Number Seven: Fake It Till You Make It._

Squaring her shoulders, she turns a corner and starts counting locker numbers over the heads of the milling crowd until she gets to number 271, wriggles between the milling bodies and gives the combination lock a twist. 

"Hey, you must be new here right?" 

Peering around her locker door, Kate blinks, finds herself face-to-face with... well, a _really pretty_ girl. 

"Um, yeah, hi," she manages, tucking her hair back behind her ear before grabbing hold of herself and brightening, forcing a smile. "I'm Kate Barton." 

"America Chavez," the girl replies, holding out her hand for a shake. 

She's taller than Kate by a good couple of inches, looks strong, has gorgeous wavy hair and sparkly eyes and Kate's heart thumps in her chest. 

"I uh, I love your jacket," she stammers, an excuse because she's staring. America's got a hooded jean jacket with the stars and stripes on the shoulders, and black shorts that show off a mile of long, tan leg, and she's looking too long, stop it, _stop it..._

"Thanks!" America grins, shuffling the notebooks in the crook of her arm. "I like yours too – so cool!" 

"It's my dad's." 

In that moment she doesn't know if she means her dad, like, _Clint her dad,_ or if she means the other guy, the unknown shadow teen who broke his heart so many years ago, but in that moment it really doesn't matter. 

"Want a piece of gum?" 

America laughs, the question too abrupt, but nods and takes a stick from the pack Kate offers her, grins and pops it into her mouth. 

"Thanks! So hey, want me to show you around? We should both be in A-Block, so we'll have all the same classes and the same lunch period." 

"That'd be great!" Kate agrees, and wow, hey, maybe her dad's rules aren't so dumb after all. 

"Cool. So hey, grab your stuff; first period's Biology and it's practically on the other side of the school." 

Kate laughs at her grumbling tone, stuffs everything but a notebook and her pencil case into the locker and slams the door. America leads her through the halls chattering the whole way. She's funny and cheerful and easy to get along with, and by the time lunch rolls around Kate feels like she's been at the school forever. She's learned where the best bathrooms are and which classes it's safe to be late too, which teachers will slam you with detention or extra homework every time. She's gotten her books and met America's friends; Cassie Lang, Teddy Altman, and Billy Kaplan, and it's all so much easier than she'd thought it would be that she feels more like herself than she has in a long time. 

"Woah," she says, a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth as she interrupts an animated cafeteria discussion about which lunch options are the most sketchy. "Over dressed much? Who the heck is that?" 

"Oh, that's VP Coulson," American replies, and Kate feels her lip curl involuntarily as she watches a man in a navy-blue suit walk across the cafeteria toward the doors. 

"Nah, Coulson's cool," Billy laughs, bumping her shoulder. "It's Principal May you really don't want to screw with." 

"Yeah, or Superintendent Fury," Teddy says with a shudder. "Nobody's ever even _seen_ him." 

"How is _that_ possible?" Kate asks, holding back a scoff in favor of learning the local legends. 

"Rumor is any kid that gets sent to see Fury never comes back," America says with a shrug, but she's serious and solemn as she stirs her hummus with a carrot stick. "Principal May just silently judges you so hard you crack and confess your sins right there in her office." 

"Coulson's cool though," Teddy seconds, chomping on an apple. "He helped me out last year when I got jammed up with the basketball team." 

"Yeah, and he's the one that pushed to get an LGBT group started a couple years ago," Billy added. "He's a good guy." 

"Best part is he doesn't try to fit in, you know?" America adds. "I mean like, he doesn't try to 'relate to you' as a teenager. He doesn't use slang or wear sneakers or anything stupid like that." 

"Obviously," Kate smirks, and the group laughs. 

"You'll probably meet him some time this week," America adds as the man in question waves to the lunch lady from across the room and steps out of the caf. "He'll do the Freshmen Welcome rally this afternoon but he likes to drag in all the new kids the first week. Make sure you 'have everything you need.'" 

She uses finger quotes but everyone laughs and shoulders each other chummily, and Cassie Lang punches her lightly in the shoulder. 

"If he offers you some of the candy on his desk make sure you grab enough for all of us," she advises, echoed enthusiastically by the rest. "It's the most amazing stuff but nobody can figure out where he gets it from." 

"I'll remember that," she says, winking in America's direction, and it's good because not only does it suggest that she'll still be friends with these kids in a week, but because America blushes prettily in her direction.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint spends his day anxiously puttering around the apartment, keeping himself busy so that he doesn't just waste away the hours worrying about his kid. Back in Waverly he'd done contracting work, all the heavy manual labor it took to build new houses for big, happy families, and after just a few short weeks in New York he was already jittery with it. He doesn't mind the new apartment, the closeness of the city, but he's used to hard work, physicality. 

Not for the first time he finds himself at loose ends wishing for something more to do. 

So he goes running, does a five mile loop before coming home to use the little gym on the ground floor of their apartment building. He lifts weights until his arms and shoulders burn with the pleasant stretch and rhythm of it, and feels better for it when he's done. He heads for the shower after, takes his time luxuriating under the hot water and gets himself off while he's at it, since he's got the place to himself and plenty of time to enjoy it without his teenage daughter around. 

He's always too nervous thinking she'll come bursting in to really enjoy it anymore, and it's been a long time since she's gone off to a friend's house for a sleepover. 

He hopes that will change soon, and not really for himself. 

It's a little easier for him to relax after that. He throws on some sweats, makes himself a sandwich and crashes on the couch with an episode of Dog Cops for a bit, body loose and lazy against the cushions. It's weird – they've been here two months but he still doesn't feel quite settled yet – even if his ass fits neatly into the dip in the middle of the couch they'd hauled with them across the country. He and Kate are slowly making this place home, this new apartment, this new city, but there are still pieces missing, pieces that don't quite fit yet, and he has far too much free time at the moment to sit around prodding at those pieces, those empty spaces. He'd had to go out and find a spaghetti strainer the night before to replace the one that had gone missing in the move, and it wasn't like he'd been attached to the old one but it had still been one more glaring sign of the newness of the whole thing, the differences. 

Sighing, he decides to make a phone call to Bucky Barnes, the agent who's been guiding him slowly but surely through all the pre-quals for the upcoming Olympic try-outs. The guy's good but he can be an obnoxious ass – much like Clint himself – so he childishly avoids the man as much as is feasibly possible without jeopardizing his chances. They talk about what will be his big debut in three months, the show he needs to put on for the potential sponsors scoping new talent, and Cling manages to hang in through the entirety of the conversation, right up until Barnes jokingly suggests he wear his old circus costume to the try-outs. 

Then he hangs up. 

It's time to go pick up Kate anyway. 

The high school is a near mad house when he rolls up on his bike at two-fifteen on the dot, kids and parents everywhere, cars jostling for a turn in and out of the lot, but eventually he gets a spot in the line and rolls through the circular pick-up drive. Scanning the crowd through his helmet visor, he catches sight of his daughter standing at the top of the steps with several other kids and she's laughing, she... 

She's got a real smile on her face and it makes his chest go tight. 

She's making friends. 

Don't even talk to him about the fact that she's still wearing his jacket, _Phil's jacket,_ it just... 

God he loves that girl. 

When his turn comes he rolls the bike to a stop at the base of the steps, a huge Harley Fatboy painted a glossy, jewel purple, revs the engine to make it growl. It draws a lot of attention, heads swiveling in his direction, but it catches Kate's too and that was all he'd wanted. She perks up, waves, then turns to say goodbye to her friends before trotting down the steps. 

He offers her a fistbump when she reaches him, which she reciprocates with minimal eye-rolling before digging her helmet out of the pannier. Tightening the straps of her bookbag, she tucks her hair back and buckles the helmet on before offering the group on the steps one last wave. Swinging her leg over the bike the way he'd taught her, she snugs herself up against his back and wraps her arms around his waist. 

"Ready?" he hollers, and she nods against his shoulder, signaling him to kick off the pavement and get them rolling on home. 

Twenty minutes later he's chasing her up the hallway from the elevator, teasing her for the way her hair's gone staticky from pulling off her helmet. 

"No, no, this is a good look on you Katie-Cat," he laughs, carding his fingers gently through her long, silky locks from behind as she unlocks the door and lets them into the apartment. "You should try this more often." 

"You were bored without me, weren't you?" she accuses, ducking out from under him and kicking off her shoes. "I can tell." 

"Hey, don't make fun of your dad," he scolds playfully. "Of course I was bored – what do you think parents do when their kids go off to school?" 

"Work?" Kate replies, in _that_ tone, the one that says _yeah, duh._ "Clean? Get a hobby, I don't know." 

"Nope, all wrong," he sings, grabbing her up in a bear hug and rocking her back and forth. "We just climb back into our pods and log off until it's time to pick you up again." 

"You're such a dork." 

"Aw, don't worry about it kid," he says with a shrug, letting her go so she can shuck the leather bomber off her shoulders and flop onto the couch. "I talked to Bucky today – he wants me to start a training regimen down at his gym next week, and the pre-quals will be here before you know it." 

"Can I come?" 

Clint turns away, heading into the kitchen to hide his smile. 

"Course you can Katie-Cat," he calls, unable to keep the happiness out of his voice. "But you know if Bucky sees you shooting too he's gonna want you to go to Juniors." 

Kate is quiet, and Clint chuckles. 

He can't express how happy he is that Kate had picked up his love of archery, that they can go to the range together and toss arrow after arrow down the lanes. They're competitive – of course they are – and she's nearly as good as he was at her age, and he knows the day will come when she can far outshoot him, but for now it's just pure fun. Some of his happiest moments are spent on the range with his bow in his hand, his daughter in the next lane over, mimicking his trick shots draw for draw. 

She was thrilled for him when Barnes had gotten his number and offered to take him all the way to the top, ecstatic and excited by the prospect of his going to the Olympics in three years. He'd pointed out that if she wanted to she could easily go as well, but she'd gone shy and blushy and quiet on him then, and they hadn't talked about it seriously since. 

To be honest Clint doesn't really think they need to. When he was fifteen he would have killed for a shot like that, for the chance to get away to something better, but he's proud to say that he's provided his girl with a far different life than the one he'd led, a far better childhood. He understands why she would hesitate, why she would be unsure. She's had a hard enough time despite his best efforts, what with her single omega dad and her drunken, felonious uncle. She's just starting here, is doing her best to be _normal,_ and becoming the US Junior Olympic archery champion isn't exactly... _common._

She wouldn't be going to school or making friends the way she is now, and that's a big thing to give up. 

"Got any homework?" he calls as he takes a mixing bowl out of the cupboard, mostly because he knows it will make her groan, will bring her into the kitchen. 

"It's the _first day_ Dad," she grumbles, coming in to slump on one of the bar stools. _"No."_

"Well what did you do all day then? Learned something I hope." 

"Not really. I mean, I found all my classes and got all my books and stuff. Met the teachers." 

"Make any friends?" 

He tries to make it casual but thinks he fails when Kate fixes him with an unimpressed look. 

"Met a couple guys who are cool," she says, and now it's his turn to aim the look right back, because it was far too casual and because it makes her humph, frown, then laugh. "Ok, fine. Yeah. I mean, they're nice. America, she's really cool – she showed me around and introduced me to everybody; Cassie and Teddy and Billy." 

"America huh?" he teases, pulling open the door of the fridge and winking at her. "She the one you were talking to today?" 

"DaaaAAAAAaaaad!" 

"Alright, alright," he surrenders, laughing, tossing a bag of chocolate chips in her direction. "Relax. I won't embarrass you in front of your new crush." 

_"Please don't."_

Clint chuckles, notices she doesn't deny it in her haste to ensure his compliance. 

"Seriously, I'm already gonna have to deal with having the 'hot dad' tomorrow." 

"Wait _what?"_ he yelps, bags of flour and sugar thumping against the countertop as he fumbles them down out of the cabinet. "That's a _thing?"_

"You think?" she huffs, rolling her eyes. "With the arms and the jacket and the motorcycle..." 

"You've basically got all those things too girly-girl," he points out, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable with the conversation. "It's... kinda weird that your friends think I'm hot." 

"Tell me about it. _Ew."_

Clint flicks her ear as he walks past her, grabs the last of the ingredients he needs for his famous chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. 

"If you don't want me to pick you up anymore..." 

"No, it's fine," she says with a shrug, tearing open the bag of chocolate and pouring a few into her hand, popping three into her mouth and tossing another into his from across the kitchen island. "Makes me look cool, riding the bike." 

"You're not getting one till you're twenty," he warns, even though he knows she has pretty-pretty-pretty good hand-eye coordination. 

"I _know._ But, I mean, if you wanted..." 

Clint pauses, wooden spoon in hand, looks at her curiously. She's gone serious and contemplative the way she does sometimes, when she's about to say something Serious and far too insightful for her age. 

"I mean if you wanted to start dating it's cool," she says with a shrug. "I don't care so long as it's not one of my friends – gag! I know it sucks that you're here alone all day though..." 

Clint's heart thumps in his chest and he cocks his head, looks at his daughter with all his love in his eyes. 

"You're a sweet kid, you know that?" he asks, rounding the counter to give her a hug, prop his chin on the top of her head. "Tell you what. You work on making some friends here and so will I. Deal?" 

"Deal," Kate grins, and Clint smiles back, ruffling her hair before passing her the bowl, sugar, and measuring cups. 

"Maybe I'll get a dog," he says a minute later in a deliberately thoughtful tone as she carefully mashes the sugar together with softened butter, watches her snap to attention as a smile spreads across her face. "Work my way up to a boyfriend hmm?" 

"Oh my gosh really?!" she squeals, and Clint laughs. 

"We'll see. Now come on, let's get these cookies baked. If you don't eat all the chocolate chips you'll have some to share at lunch tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint's bike - the purple Harley Fatboy


	4. Chapter 4

Well. 

They're off to a halfway decent start. 

Phil Coulson sighs, loosens his tie and removes his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. 

Usually by the end of the first school week he's already gotten a feel for how the fall semester will go, and this year is no exception. Having ushered his second-to-last visitor of the day out of his office, he sits back down at his desk and takes a moment to breathe. It's always a rush, a crazy spin of too-much-to-do, but he's found contentment in this job, in working with young men and women on their way to adulthood who need guidance. 

He never would have pictured himself in such a place. The Army had been his plan, the Rangers his passion, and for many years he had served his country faithfully as an elite member of several black ops teams. Then a roadside bomb had blown a piece of rebar through his chest and he'd died three times on the operating table, and he'd pretty much been sidelined from ever returning to that kind of life again. 

Oddly enough, the world had seemed to be preparing itself for him post-Rangers. His old Navy buddy Nick Fury had lost an eye several years before Phil's accident, and had somehow ended up transferring those skills to running a school district. Don't even ask him how that translates – he's been doing this for six years now and he still doesn't know. 

Fury had always had a habit of _collecting_ people though, people who were good at what they did. He'd brought their friend Melinda May in from the air force as Principal, convinced Bruce Banner to teach an AP course in Biology and Tony Stark another in Engineering. He'd gotten the Norse linguist Thor Odison signed on to teach several language courses, had even gone out and found Steve Rogers, the man who'd created the famous Captain America comics at the age of ten, to be his art instructor – though to Phil's embarrassment that might have been more to entice _him_ to the school than anything. With that incredible team behind him, he'd opened SHIELD public schools in the heart of New York and set about shaping young minds in the way _he_ felt they should be shaped. 

So. 

Maybe not so strange. 

Works out for him though; there's a ready-made job waiting when he'd finally made it through the pain and the physical therapy and the mental mess he'd been. It had taken a while for him to straighten himself out and then to get into the swing of a lifestyle that was entirely different from the one he'd led before, but he'd found he truly enjoyed his work, and still did. 

He makes a difference, if only in a different way, does prevention instead of cleanup, and it's good. 

Doesn't mean it's not hard work of course. 

He's tired. 

His chest has been a bit tight today, a bit achy, and he takes a moment to do a few breathing exercises, a few of the stretches he'd been taught to loosen the muscles in his back and shoulders. 

Still. 

A decent start. 

The Freshmen Welcome rally had gone off without a hitch and set the tone for year, made clear his and May's expectations for their students. They pride themselves on running a forward-thinking school with a strong zero-tolerance policy, that promotes diversity and encourages kids to help create and expand the learning process. He's already started getting petitions for new student-groups, ones that he'll have to go over this weekend in order to respond to in a timely fashion. 

Two hundred and fifty of them maybe, two hundred and fifty freshmen, new faces to learn and personalities to shuffle in order to keep things running smoothly. He counts himself lucky that only four of them are new to the district - the rest had come up together from the eighth-grade middle school several blocks away - making today's task that much easier. As much as he hates being kept back on Fridays, he likes to give the new ones a week or so to settle in before he checks on them. 

_'Lucky there are only four,'_ he thinks, running his finger down the short list of names and pulling the corresponding file from the stack. 

He's running behind. 

His last meeting with Tommy Shepard-Kaplan had gone over; while his step brother Billy Kaplan's teachers had nothing but good things to say, Tommy was coming to them after several years of homeschooling, having had some trouble with the public education system after being diagnosed with ADHD at a young age. The young man is clearly hyperactive with a touch of anxiety that had had him jittering and jabbering throughout their meeting, but he has a good heart and Phil anticipates many more similar meetings in the future. 

Glancing at the clock, Phil opens the file in front of him and skims the top page, page three of ten. His secretary apparently has her own ideas of how things should be done. Katherine (KATE!) Barton's previous school had had nothing but good things to say as well apparently. 

Well at least _this_ one should be easy. 

Phil smirks at the nickname penciled in at the top of the page, makes a mental note. He doesn't pander to his students, won't embarrass himself in an effort to ingratiate himself, but it's the little things like remembering their preferred name and pronouns that make his office a safe space for them, make him approachable. 

"Ms. Ehle, would you send in Miss Barton please?" he asks loudly over the comm, raising his voice to compensate both for his secretary's hearing impairment and her _listening_ impairment. 

He receives nothing but a burst of static in response. 

Huffing in fond exasperation, he rotates his shoulder one last time before straightening his tie and sitting back, the picture of relaxed composure. Last one, day's almost over, first week out of the way... 

He's shuffling the papers on his desk into some semblance of order when the door opens, when someone comes in and sits down. 

"I apologize for the wait Miss Barton," he says, tapping the paperwork briskly on the edge of his desk. "I'm running a bit behind this... afternoon." 

Phil blinks, stunned. 

The young girl sitting across from him is the very spitting image of his sister at that age. 

"It's fine," she says, shifting in her seat as her hands open and close around the strap of her bag, a movement that is somehow painfully familiar. "Just... I'm not in trouble right?" 

Phil hardly hears her – the resemblance is _uncanny._ It hits him so strongly, so viscerally that he's having trouble regaining his composure, opens his mouth and reels off his speech by rote more than anything. 

"No, not at all," he hears himself say. "I like to call all the new students in for a minute, make sure you're settling in well. Found your classes, that sort of thing. Make sure you're not having any... problems." 

God, he feels like he's twelve again, sitting across from Beth, who is four years older and terribly bossy. This girl has the same defiant curve to her chin, the same look in her dark eyes, _calculating._ Hell, she's even got the same sense of style – color in her hair, black leather ja... 

_Leather jacket._

Phil's heart thumps in his chest and he can't breathe, suddenly sent spinning back in time to a long-ago summer he'd never really forgotten. He can hear Kate calling him but her voice is hazy, muffled as he's assaulted by the memory of lying on his back in a hayfield under a cornflower blue sky, looking down at the patch on his shoulder as a boy with golden hair carefully threads silver arrows through his sleeve. 

Those pins are still there, that same old iron-on in the shape of Captain America's famous shield, and Phil... can't... breathe... 

"Where did you get that?!" 

He blurts it out at the girl before he knows he's going to. It's too loud, too sharp, and he startles her, makes her eyes go wide as she spooks and leans back in her chair. 

"Get what?" she asks, her voice a clash of wariness and nerves and challenge, but it's not shaking like Phil thinks his will. 

"Your _jacket,"_ he chokes, the words coming up out of his throat like shards of glass, cutting. "The jacket, that was... that was my _jacket..."_

Kate Barton blinks at him, shifts in her seat. 

"It's my dad's," she shrugs, though the gesture is stiff and forced as she eyes the door. "He let me wear it this week. Can I not... I mean it wasn't in the handbook..." 

"It was mine," he says again, mind a blank but for the memories that jacket held, mixed emotion filling up his chest hot and hard. "It was mine, how did he... It's mine." 

"Sir?" 

She's shutting down, he can see it, gone cold and closed off and he knows he's seriously bordering on impropriety but he can't seem to stop the words spilling out of him. 

"I got it at a thrift store," he mumbles, lost in the past. "My mom put the patch on the shoulder for me, and I left it with..." 

Kate's eyes flash and her spine goes ramrod straight, suddenly radiating anger. She shoves herself to her feet so sharply her knees knock against his desk and her chair teeters, and she looms over him as best a teenage girl can loom, her jaw clenched. 

"I think you're mistaken Mr. Coulson," she says tightly, and he shakes his head. 

"No, no, I'm sure of it. It's mine, I gave it to..." 

"It's _mine!"_ she snaps, and it's nearly a shout, but he can hardly bring himself to chastise her, not even as she stamps her foot at him, her hands fisted at her sides as she leans forward on the balls of her feet, ready to fight. "It's mine, ok? It's my _dad's!_ You gave it away and you can't have it back!" 

Phil stares, miraculously stunned by the outburst despite his own behavior, but before he can wrangle an apology the school bell starts blaring out in the hallway, signaling the release of his students for the day and the mad rush for the doors. Across his desk Kate Barton stands defiant, but he can see a tremble running down the length of her arms, see a paleness beneath her complexion that hadn't been there before. 

Opening her mouth, she tilts her head, eyes filling with tears, then turns sharply on her heel and storms out, slamming his door behind her. 

Phil collapses. 

His heart is pounding in his chest, his mind racing, connections sparking rapid fire like gunshots, and he feels like he's going to be sick. He'd never forgotten the incredible summer he'd spent with Carson's Carnival, riding the rail cars across the country and falling in love with their trick archer, the Amazing Hawkeye. In all his days before or since he'd never known a man like that boy had been, had never felt an affinity for anyone like he had for him. 

He'd left a piece of himself behind when he'd gone off to join the army that fall, not just his beloved bomber jacket. _His_ jacket, which had suddenly reappeared draped over the shoulders of a girl who looked just like his sister when he hadn't seen it for fifteen years, fifteen... 

Phil's heart stops. 

Kate Barton is a new freshman; the freshmen are fifteen, sixteen at the most. 

She's fifteen, and she looks like his sister, and she's wearing the leather jacket that Phil had used to blanket his lover the morning he'd snuck away without a goodbye... 

Ho-ly fuck. 

It _wasn't,_ it _couldn't_ be, but... 

But Phil's not an idiot; it's too many coincidences, it... 

HOLY. FUCK. 

He hits the window so hard he nearly tears the blinds from their tracks. Jerking them to the side and out of the way, he scans the milling crowd of students outside waiting for pickup, searches for the familiar black leather he hasn't seen in so long, the teenage girl he's _never_ seen... 

He catches sight of her standing at the edge of the steps, with America Chavez and the Kaplan boys, and his throat goes dry. Her shoulders are high and tight and he doesn't understand – it's anger she's shown him, not fear or nerves or confusion because her principal's gone crazy. 

A motorcycle revs in the drive and Kate jumps, but then she's darting down the steps and climbing onto the back of it, throwing her arms around a man whose face is hidden behind the reflective visor of his helmet and roaring off. 

Hands shaking, breath hiccoughing in and out of his chest, Phil drops the blinds and returns to his desk just in time for his knees to give out from under him. His chair is there to catch him but he still feels like he's free-falling: terrified, sick, hopeful. 

The bike was purple. 

Snatching up Kate's file, he scrabbled through it to her New Admittance application, finds the name of her emergency contact. 

**Father: Clinton F. Barton.**

_Clint._


	5. Chapter 5

Kate bolts. 

She can't breathe and her heart's pounding and her brain is one big muddled up mess, and all she knows is that she needs to get out of there. 

She doesn't care that she's pretty much yelling at her principal, or slamming his door, or running from his office like there's a monster on her heels. 

She just needs to be away from the man. 

Cause he's... 

She doesn't know what he is. 

She just knows he's saying things that make the hair on the back of her neck stand up and she wants out. 

She practically bulldozes her way through the crowded hallways, out of the school and onto the steps where she catches sight of America's stars and stripes and curly hair. Her feet carry her to her friend's side more than her head, which is thumping full of shock and fear and worry like a migraine, and she tucks herself in tight between Tommy and Billy, who sling their arms around her shoulders automatically. 

"Did you bring us candy?" she hears Cassie ask teasingly, but it takes a minute for her to get it together enough to respond. 

"No, no I..." 

She licks her lips. 

"He didn't have any." 

"Woah, Kate, are you ok?" America asks, and both boys pull back, look at her carefully. "What happened?" 

"I don't..." she stammers, because she doesn't, she _doesn't_ know. "I..." 

She's lucky though; just as she'd been saved by the bell in Coulson's office, the snarl of her father's Harley roars above the dull chatter of the student body, makes her jump. 

"I gotta go," she says suddenly, already moving because she doesn't want... "Sorry. Sorry, I... I'm fine, I just... gotta go." 

She keeps her head ducked as she races down the steps, pulls on her helmet without meeting her dad's raised fist in greeting, but he's not called Hawkeye for nothing. 

He already knows something's wrong. 

She doesn't want to talk about it though, not here, doesn't want Coulson to come stalking out here and... 

Just no. 

Climbing onto the bike she squishes herself up tight against her dad's back the way he'd taught her, wraps her arms around his waist. He tries to turn to look back at her but she tucks her face against his shoulder, makes that impossible. His head tilts and she can feel him reading her but he turns back around again, drops his hand to cover hers where it rests against his belly and squeezes before revving the bike and pushing off, taking them away. 

She only wears a half helmet, so the cutting wind dries the tears as soon as they hit her cheeks. If her dad can feel the pounding of her heart or the trembling in her arms she can always blame it on the bike. The ride's just long enough to get a little of her self-control back, if not to figure anything out, so when she climbs off the motorcycle and heads up the stairs to their apartment, it's only an uneasy quiet between them, not the looming apocalypse it had been. 

Although, if she keeps thinking about it... 

Suddenly huge arms wrap around her and she's pulled back against her dad's chest, his chin coming to rest on top of her head, and she's swamped by the familiar feeling of being safe here, where nothing can get to her. 

"You wanna talk about it?" he murmurs, in that tone that asks her please. 

He worries, she knows he does. 

He tries so hard to balance being a nosy, involved parent and being respectful of her space that it's always been hard to get mad at him, to shout or to sulk like any normal teenager does. She's seen the how-to books on his nightstand, his browser history to singles' support sites, and it hurts to keep things from him. She'd felt guilty for two weeks after going to her Aunt Nat when she was thirteen, when she'd needed advice about Tampons and Midol for the first time. 

There are just some things she can't talk to him about. 

Periods. 

_This._

Maybe it's not fair, but... 

"I have to do my homework," she mumbles, but she softens it by turning in his embrace and hugging him back, snuggling against his chest. 

"Ok. But you know if you need me..." 

"I know. Thanks dad." 

He pulls back, strokes his hand over her hair. 

"I'll call you for dinner ok?" 

"Kay." 

It's like taking a breath – closing her bedroom door behind her. They've had a pretty strong knocking policy ever since she'd walked in on him with his shirt off and his hands on his belt two years ago, scarred for life by the 'what-if.' 

He won't bust in on her. 

She can have her freak-out in peace, and as soon as the door is shut she sets about doing just that. 

It's not hard. 

She catches a glimpse of herself in her vanity mirror, still wearing that... that _jacket,_ and bursts into panic as easily as bursting into tears. Her heart slams against her ribs as she claws at the sleeves, ripping the bomber off as fast as she can shuck it. Wadding it up into a tight ball, she crams it down into her laundry hamper and slams the lid, lunging for her bed across the room to get as far away from it as she can. 

She's panting, her fingers flexing, and she reaches up over her head to take her bow down off of its pegs. Leaning back against the pillows, she lays it across her knees, strokes the limbs compulsively the way one might stroke a pet. Slowly she calms, and it's not that it's a weapon in her hands. It's just familiar, safe, _hers,_ the way her dad is hers. She'd told him that, she... 

Ok, she needs to think this through. 

If she doesn't she's going to explode – there's no way she'll be able to go back to school on Monday. 

Cause what... what had just _happened?_

Could her _principal_ really be her... 

No, no, no way! 

It can't, he _can't..._

Ok, ok, _breathe_ Kate, you _moron,_ you know how to do that much... 

Sighing, she releases her grip on her bow, scrubs her hands over her face. Setting the slender recurve aside – her first – she leans to the side and tugs her journal from beneath the mattress, flips to the back and smooths down a blank page. 

Ok. 

Ok, so, first things first. 

Facts. 

Principal Coulson had said the jacket used to be his. 

That... 

That's it. 

That's not a big deal right, doesn't mean anything. People sell their jackets all the time, lose them, get rid of them... 

Kate scowls at the single bullet point she'd written out, taps her pen against her knee. 

No, that can't be right. 

She wouldn't have freaked out if that had been it, if that had been all he'd... 

He'd said that he had been the one to put the patch on the sleeve, the little round patch like Captain America's shield. 

Crap, that fits. 

He'd said he'd left it with someone, given it to someone... 

Oh _god..._

It's... it's _him,_ can it really be... 

"Katie?" 

Her dad's voice is carefully calm, the tone he uses when he's trying to be the Voice of Reason, and where it normally fires her up and has her ready to fight, tonight it's soothing on her frayed nerves, her anxious mind. 

Stuffing the notebook back beneath the mattress, she darts over to the door, popping out into the hallway instead of calling him in. He seems a little surprised but doesn't mention it, just ruffles her hair and guides her toward the stairs with a hand on the small of her back. 

"You hungry?" he asks, probably because he knows she's upset and tends to pick at things when she is. 

"Little bit," she allows, "They do pizza in the cafeteria every Friday." 

Her dad laughs. 

"Well that doesn't sound so bad," he suggests as they step into the kitchen, two plates already set out at the island on their little matching placemats; knives and forks and glasses all in their place. 

She sits, stays quiet even though she knows what he wants her to say. She watches as he brings a pan over from the stove; her favorite, Cheater's Carbonara. Her dad's awesome at making delicious, fancy dishes out of less-fancy food, and the white cheddar mac-n-cheese with peas and bacon is a hearty, homey meal that he usually saves for bad days. He doles it out, brings spinach salad and garlic bread from the counter and sits down across from her, tilts his head and pulls a face. 

A giggle breaks out of her before she can stop it and he huffs a laugh, ducks his head, so maybe it's not all so bad. 

She's still got _him_ right? He's right here, taking care of her, worrying about her... 

"It's a good school," she says, because she knows that's what he'd meant, what he needed, and she sees his shoulders slump just a little bit as they dig in to dinner. "Most of the classes are boring but I really like my literature class. We read the book and then basically get to spend the whole period arguing about it." 

"Well that certainly sounds like a class you'd enjoy," he says with a grin, and she dips her finger into her water glass to flick it at him. 

"We're doing Romeo and Juliet first," she hears herself say. "Everybody talks about it like it's this big romance novel, but it's a _tragedy,_ duh." 

She jabbers on for a few minutes, chattering about her classes and the minutia of highschool student life between bites, and it all sounds so normal in her ears that it's almost like nothing had happened, like nothing world-altering is happening. She must talk too long though, too fast because her dad is looking at her again, his fork halfway to his mouth, and she actually has to stop to take a breath. 

"Dad?" she starts, and crap this is so hard. She isn't sure, doesn't even know... 

"What's wrong Katie-Cat?" he murmurs, reaching across the counter to cover her hand. 

"If... if you thought you knew something about somebody else, and maybe it's something that would hurt them, but... but maybe it was something that would make them really really happy... would you tell them?" 

Her dad looks at her, searching, before he sits back, wipes his hands on a napkin. 

"I guess that depends," he says slowly. "Is somebody in trouble? Could they really get hurt?" 

Yes, she thinks, _yes,_ but that's not what he means and she knows it. 

"No." 

"Well then, I'd probably want to make sure I had all the facts first. You know how gossip and rumors can make things... bad." 

Kate swallows, drops her eyes to her plate. 

She hadn't even thought about that, about how this might remind him of what had happened with Uncle Barney and the kinds of things people had said about her dad when they'd found out about him. 

"You're not being bullied at school are you?" he asks gently, and she shakes her head, but not quick enough. "Do I need to talk to your principal?" 

"NO!" she yelps, and crap, that came out way too loud and scared and has him perking up like he thinks he's figured it out and that's the last thing she wants, just, just... 

She takes a breath, makes herself calm and relaxed. 

"No, dad, I'm ok," she insists. "I have friends. America and Cassie, and Tommy and Billy and Teddy. They're... they're all really cool and everybody's really nice. It's not... like before." 

"You're sure?" 

"Yeah. I'm sure. It's... it's not even that big a deal. It might not even be a thing, like you said. I don't... have all the facts." 

"Why does it sound like you're making a plan in there?" he says suspiciously, but there's teasing to the edge of his smirk so she thinks she's in the clear, at least for now. "Just be careful ok? And you _come to me,_ if you get in real trouble." 

"I promise." 

"Good girl." 

It probably says a lot that she doesn't protest the endearment. Normally she doesn't like being made to feel young, small. Tonight she feels like if she's not careful she'll start shaking. She finishes her dinner in silence, then helps to clear and put away the leftovers and load the dishwasher. Afterward she excuses herself back to her room, and actually focuses on getting her few homework assignments done, more as a way of avoiding any deep thinking than anything else. 

Her brain wanders but really, in the end her dad is right. 

She _doesn't_ know for sure, and what's the point of freaking out for nothing? 

Until she knows, until she's _sure_ there's no reason to even bring her dad into it. 

And that's what this is about – protecting him. 

She refuses to acknowledge that small kernel of fear, those tiny shards of anger and jealousy living sharp and painful in her chest. 

She just needs to keep her dad and Coulson apart until she figures this out. 

Only... how's she going to do that? 

Kate's eyes fall on her laundry hamper across the room and slowly she drags herself to her feet, approaches it warily like there's a snake inside instead of just some smelly gym clothes. Carefully, she digs out the jacket and shakes away the wrinkles, carries it back to smooth it out across the bedspread. It's in pretty good shape for being older than she is, and even in the middle of all this mess she can admit that it looks good on her. It's a little worn in places, a little dull, and there are threads coming loose from the cuffs and from the red, white, and blue patch on the shoulder. 

She knows where there's leather polish. 

A sewing needle. 

The jacket had kicked all this off, had caused Coulson to freak out just as bad as she'd been freaking out all afternoon. 

It obviously meant something to him – another check in the affirmative column – but what _exactly_ it meant she still wasn't a hundred percent certain. 

She's swimming in a river of denial – she knows – but she really doesn't want... 

It's not about her! 

It's not about her fear, or her worries, or the confusion that's bubbling around hot and thick and nauseating in the pit of her belly. 

So what if she's in denial – it's an excellent coping mechanism, thank you very much. 

Besides, her dad is Clint Barton. 

She learned it from the best. 

She's smart though, resourceful; she can figure this out. 

All she needs to do is a little digging.


	6. Chapter 6

It's tradition for the SHIELD Public School team to go out for drinks the first Friday night of the new semester. It's one part celebration, one part commiseration, one part sheer relief that the school year is well and truly underway after that strange, anxious period of planning and preparation in mid-August. They're expected by now at their favorite tavern, a little hole-in-the-wall called Tapper's, run by a bitter old Navyman who bite is far worse than his bark, which is bad enough already. The man's snarl and glare are enough to keep out the riff-raff and the loud, obnoxious college-crowd that appear every now and then, making it the perfect place for the older crowd to unwind and safely bitch about the small annoyances of their first week. 

It's sheer habit that has Phil turning up there at eight on the dot; jeans and sneakers and a long-sleeved tee with the Rangers logo branded across his chest. He feels... lost, had barely managed to pack up his things and drive home after his confrontation with Kate Barton in his office. To be honest he isn't exactly sure what he'd done between then and now – half the reason he'd taken the subway to the bar instead of his SUV. His head is empty, a complete blank, his heart thumping along to a dull tune of danger, of warning, and he's entirely at loose ends, a storm of emotion and confusion tangled up inside his chest like knotwork. 

He's greeted by his name cheered out in chorus – his friends all lushes who take drinking at eight to mean pre-gaming at seven, even though they're all far too old for such things. He manages half a grin, gets himself into the booth between Jasper and Mel, across from Nick and his wife Maria, and when a shot is slid in front of him he drops it into the waiting beer and chugs it down in one go to the stunned silence of the rest of the table. 

"Well I think that answers the question as to how _Phil's_ year is going so far," Melinda remarks coolly, her eyebrows up near her hairline as she reaches for the bright pink drink she's sipping from a cocktail glass. 

"No fair!" Jasper whines, already half-drunk as he waves crookedly at the waitress who is approaching the table with two huge trays in her hands. _"I'm_ supposed to win the Worst-First this semester!" 

Phil highly doubts it. 

"Stark only _almost_ blew up the science lab Sitwell," Fury grumbles as baskets of hot wings and loaded waffle fries are set down to crowd the table, a second beer for Phil and something that smells strongly of vodka and pineapple for Maria. 

"We didn't even have to evacuate this time," Mel adds cheerfully, because for some strange reason she adores any and all havoc Tony Stark can wreak on her friends and co-workers. "It wasn't nearly as bad as that time he and Banner..." 

"I think one of our new students is my child." 

Phil blinks, stunned that that just came out of his mouth, horrified that he'd said it so loudly, so flatly. 

The table has gone dead silent and thank god they're in the back corner of the bar where they at least have some small modicum of privacy, because jesus why doesn't he just take out a flyer in the school paper? His friends are all staring at him with a befuddled kind of questioning, like they're trying to figure out whether he's serious or not, but then Jasper is sniggering into his Cosmopolitan and ribbing him with his elbow and everyone relaxes, like that's the cue they should be waiting for. 

"Good one Phil," Jasper chortles, "If that were true you'd win Worst-First for life. Even I gotta admit, that's like, the shittiest... whoa are you ok?" 

He's not. 

He's wobbling on the bench, the beer and whiskey hitting his empty stomach hard and sweeping through his blood, and he's pretty sure he's just gone horrifically pale, if his colleagues worried faces are any judge. 

"Holy shit, you weren't kidding," Maria exclaims, as Mel pushes a platter of breadsticks in his direction and he forces himself to swallow a bite, shaking hands tearing it to pieces first. "Phil..." 

"What the hell Cheese?!" Nick demands, suddenly sitting at attention, all trace of tippsy-ness gone and replaced by the old, fiery intensity he knows so well, comforting in his familiarity. "What happened?" 

"Yeah, last I knew you were like, a Kinsey six," Jasper adds. 

Phil barks a miserable laugh – a bit crude as always, but spot on. 

"I am," he says miserably, "I was, I..." 

"Slow down," Mel scolds, always the voice of controlled reason as she shoots the rest of them a back-off glare. "Eat something, catch your breath. Then start at the beginning." 

"But..." 

Jasper cuts himself off with a pained yelp and Phil is pretty sure that Mel's kicked him in the shin beneath the table, but it's good advice no matter how much he feels like he's about to have a panic attack, so he finishes another two pieces of bread, gets something in his stomach to soak up the alcohol he'd impulsively downed so quickly, then finishes off both Nick and Maria's glasses of ice water. When he feels less like he's going to puke he sighs and settles back against the booth, sighs and rubs his eyes until he sees spots. 

"You remember the guy I told you about, the kid from the circus that summer before I enlisted?" he asks Nick, waiting until the man nods warily before continuing. The rest of the table haven't heard the sordid tale, at least not in its entirety, so he lays it out flat. "He was an omega. We spent all summer having unprotected sex, and now..." 

"And now you think maybe you got him pregnant?" Maria asks, skeptically, and ok, fair. "That'd be one hell of a coincidence Phil. It's a big damn world out there." 

"I never thought..." he mumbles, more to himself than anything, because hell, he _hadn't_ thought. He'd known Clint was an omega but it was so rare that a male could conceive they'd never even hesitated, never even worried... 

But that was no excuse. Sexually transmitted diseases were still entirely possible, and really, it was just risky. At the time he'd thought himself a bad-boy, had been completely head-over-heels in love, and had believed his golden circus boy when he said that Phil was the only one he was sleeping with that summer, despite the way he flirted with nearly anyone that walked past. 

Now, as an adult far more aware of himself and the real-world (though apparently far less than he'd thought) he'd helped create the health class all freshmen take their second semester, fought against the prudish soccer-moms at the board meeting to get the abstinence-based curriculum thrown out and have the real facts of sex taught in his school, to have _safe_ sex preached instead of _no_ sex, and to have direction to birth control options made available by the school counselor. To think that he himself might have slipped so badly, made such a mistake... 

But it wasn't, it wasn't a mistake. 

Being with Clint that summer, falling in love with him... 

_That_ was no mistake. 

"What makes you think this kid is yours Cheese?" Fury asks in a low, deep voice, the one Phil's only heard him use when someone was bleeding out and half-hysterical. "It's pretty obvious you're feeling sure." 

"She's a freshman," he mumbles, mind still far away, stomach turning under a nauseating mixture of guilt and fondness. "Fifteen. Timing fits, and she..." 

Blinking himself back to full awareness, he swallows hard, owns the disaster that was their meeting. 

"I called her into the office, just for a quick meeting, like I do with all of them. She was wearing... she was wearing my jacket. Same jacket, leather bomber, still had the Cap patch on the shoulder. The... the pins he put in the sleeve. I... I didn’t react well. Spooked her." 

"Ehle said something about you having a row with a student," Mel mentions carefully, and Fury scowls. 

"Christ Coulson, what did you do?" he growls. "Am I gonna have a damned lawsuit on my hands?" 

"What? No!" he yelps, then immediately quiets when he realizes that that could be a very distinct possibility in the near future if this is not handled delicately. 

"I reacted badly," he admits, "But nothing _that_ bad. I haven't said anything to her." 

"But that's just a jacket," Melinda points out, stabbing her straw in his direction. "Phil, what did you do?" 

"I already had her file out," he snaps defensively. "Her emergency form is open to administration and to staff." 

All four of them stare like they couldn't care less, and it strikes him that they're waiting. 

"Her father's first name is Clint," he says, his voice cracking, "And he's the only guardian listed on any of her forms." 

Putting on a brave face, he offers Maria a wry smile. 

"One hell of a coincidence," he parrots back at her, and then he's giggling like he's punch drunk, stupid with anxiety, with guilt and relief and terrible, terrible hope. 

"Jesus," Jasper huffs, sounding unconscionably more stunned than Phil feels. "You have a _kid._ Who..." 

"Don't," he warns, clenching his teeth. "That's not fair. I don't even know what I'm going to _do_ about this, I..." 

"What do you _want_ to do?" 

Groaning, Phil folds his arms on the table top and drops his head, hiding his face. 

"I loved him," he mumbles, feeling that long-buried warmth come swelling up in his chest, like that summer was only yesterday. "God, part of me _still_ loves him. I want..." 

He doesn't finish because he doesn't know what he wants. 

A traitorous part of his heart whispers that in an ideal world, he and Clint reconcile and fall right back into the same intimacy that they'd had so many years ago, that they pick up right where they left off and fall in love again, that his daughter accepts him and they live as one big happy family. 

He shuts that part down hard. 

It's stupid – he has no idea who Clint is now, if Clint even truly remembers him, and Kate... 

Well, she'd made it pretty clear she wasn't happy with the way he'd treated her in his office. 

One hell of a first impression to make on his maybe-probably daughter. 

Phil sighs, lifts his head and props his chin on his arms as Jasper pats his shoulder. 

"You've got a hell of a lot of thinking to do buddy," he says carefully. 

"You need to figure this shit out Phil," Fury reiterates, far more bluntly. "And stay away from that girl in the meantime." 

Phil casts him a nasty glare, even if he is right. He's already done some damage and doesn't want to do anymore. There is no call for him to upset her, alienate her before he even has his own head on straight. He's not the only person whose emotional health and wellbeing are at stake here, and that's to say nothing about the ethical issues involved with his being the assistant principal of her school. 

He makes a quiet, solemn vow that he won't fuck this up for the school or for himself, that he'll keep his distance until he gets this figured out. Parent teacher conferences happen in early November – that's only two months away. At the very least, the very worst, he'll... he'll just have to wait. 

So he promises, promises himself and his friends and his boss that he won't screw this up. 

Doesn't do a very good job of it though.


	7. Chapter 7

She has all weekend to plan. 

If her dad notices that she's a little quiet, a little withdrawn, he doesn't mention it. 

On Saturday they head down to Bucky Barnes' gym and meet the man, who looks at Kate curiously but doesn't really seem to mind that she's there. They work out together for an hour or so, her dad spotting her as she pushes for a personal best on the bench press and meets it, but only for three reps. It feels good, the stretch and burn, the pride, and it's good to get back into the swing of it all again, even if it's kinda weird working out with a bunch of Olympic hopefuls in the room; men and women trying for rowing, shotput, swimming, anything and everything that has them training their bodies into elite tools. 

After their workout Mr. Barnes convinces them to follow him over to his state-of-the-art range designed in part by Tony Stark himself. Her dad must have known they would be going because they'd driven his beat-up old truck instead of the bike, and when they arrive Kate finds her practice bow in the back right alongside his. 

He's not as subtle as he likes to think. 

Still, it's nice to really shoot again, to fall into the steady rhythm of nock, draw, fire even if she can feel Mr. Barnes' eyes on her the whole time. 

She's not saying no, ok? 

She'll still be just under eighteen when the next Junior Olympics rolls around, and she thinks maybe _then._ But now, barely even fifteen, still at a loss for who she really wants to be... 

She doesn't know. 

And maybe she's still the new girl after only a week, but she likes her new school, her new friends, her new life all with one exception. 

Kate grits her teeth, her arm wobbling, throwing off her last shot by a quarter of an inch. 

Scowling, she huffs and starts packing her bow away, stripping off her quiver and shooting glove. When her dad steps into her lane a minute later, chuckling, she sticks her tongue out at him. 

"Smart ass," he scolds teasingly. "If you don't want to play ball just tell him. You don't have to sell yourself short." 

Kate blinks, suddenly swamped with love for her dad, her goofy, too-sweet-for-his-own-good dad who of course would automatically assume that she'd thrown the shot on purpose instead of thinking she'd actually missed. 

"Come on," he grins, oblivious of the moment she's having. "I'll buy you a milkshake." 

True to his word, they leave Mr. Barnes behind and head for what is quickly becoming their favorite diner in this new city. It does great comfort food that reminds them both of home – meatloaf and mashed potatoes, chicken-fried steak, baked macaroni and cheese – and they're fast becoming regulars. They're so well known in fact that the waitress brings two mugs of coffee to the table on the first pass, before they've even ordered. 

It's three in the afternoon but it's a cold, drizzly sort of day for early September, so they both order the chili-cornbread bake as well as the diner's famous double-malted; peanut-butter and banana for her and cherry-chocolate-chip for her dad. They make small talk for a while as they eat but she can feel him edging back toward asking her what's going on, if she's ok, so she puts on a happy face and brings him back to the subject of getting a dog. 

By the time they've finished and paid the bill, slurped up the last of their milkshakes, they've both decided that they'll take a trip to the shelter in a month or so, when they're both a bit more settled and are sure their schedules can accommodate a dog. It's something to look forward to, a bright spot that reassures her of the future. They'll still be here, together, settled... They'll be _ok._

It starts to rain for real on the way back to their apartment, which can only mean one thing. Sure enough, her dad heads straight for the couch and curls up with a rerun of Dog Cops – he'll be out like a light before the first set of commercials. Heading for the stairs, she changes her mind and makes a quick detour through the kitchen to dig the leather polish out of the junk drawer, makes a dash for her room. 

She didn't have to worry – her dad is already snoring by the time she hits the landing. 

He is _literally_ the King of Naps. 

Slipping quietly upstairs into her bedroom, she sits down at her desk and lays the jacket in her lap, quickly threads a needle and sets about fixing the patch on the shoulder, re-fixing the red, white, and blue circle with neat little cross-stitches. She tries not to think about what she's doing as she does it, tries not to think about why or what it means, but it's hard, especially as she slips the silver pins out of the sleeve, traces the arrow shapes with her fingertips. 

She's seen pictures of her dad when he was a teenager. Skinny, tanned, more golden-blonde than he is now. Sad sometimes, in his circus pictures, other times grinning brighter than she's ever really seen. She can't really imagine him that young, her age, can't really imagine him in love. He's never really... dated before, no one, and now she wonders if maybe there's a reason, if maybe it had been right in front of her the whole time. 

She frowns as she dampens an old, ratty t-shirt with polish, starts working it into the leather jacket. 

Her dad has always been open with her about who her other parent was, about their absence in her life. He'd told her all about that summer, about how he'd fallen so deeply in love with a boy he didn't really know, and she gets that ok? She fifteen, she gets crushes, she gets puppy love, but what she doesn't understand is how he can still talk about the guy with so much fondness, so much longing in his voice. The guy knocked him up and left him, never tried to come back; how can he... 

She doesn't think it's something she'll _ever_ understand. 

She's angry and she's hurt – for herself, yeah, at the father she never got, who'd abandoned her before she even met him – but she knows that part of it is stupid. Her dad told her lots of times over the years that the mysterious Phil hadn't known he was pregnant, had always been honest that he would have to leave at the end of the summer. 

It doesn't stop her from feeling the way she feels. 

What's worse though, what's worse is her being angry and hurt for her dad. 

This _Phil_ may not have known Kate, may not have known _about_ her, but he knew about her dad, he knew about _Clint._ Unless the guys is a complete and total moron, he had to know how he felt about him. Her dad wears his heart on his sleeve, still waxes poetic about his stupid summer fling fifteen years later, now way this guy didn't know. 

So what? 

He just didn't _care?_

Finishing up the jacket with an angry huff, she stops herself from crumpling it up again and instead puts it up on a hanger to dry properly. Opening a window to let out the stink of the polish – seriously, her room smells like she dumped of bottle of nail polish remover – she grabs her notebook from under the mattress and flops onto her stomach, pulling out her phone and flipping to an empty page. 

It takes her a couple of tries to dial America's number. The girl had put it into her phone on the first day, passing it around the lunch table so the other members of their little group could do the same thing. They'd texted a couple of times but mostly while they were at school, between classes or while they were trying to meet up in the cafeteria or on the quad. She hasn't called her after school, and heck, it's only the very first weekend. She's barely settled here, barely connected with these people, and if she'd left any friends behind back in Iowa her thumb would probably be hovering over their name, but she hadn't. 

She thinks she needs a friend right now. 

"Hey girlie!" America greets cheerfully, grinning at her when the video-chat connects. "What's up? We were worried about you." 

Kate feels a little zap of something hit her, relief maybe, that someone is paying attention besides her dad, that someone cares. 

"What do you know about AP Coulson?" 

America blinks, pulls back a little bit like she's shocked, then she frowns, suspicion written all over her face. 

"Kate what happened?" she asks seriously, looking like she's ready to run for an adult at the slightest hint of bad-touch. "You were fine and then you came out of that meeting white as a sheet." 

"Can you..." she starts, biting her lip and glancing over at her closed bedroom door. "Can you keep a secret?" 

That wasn't the thing to say. 

Over the video she sees America sit up in her bed, look off to the right as though she's looking at her own bedroom door, ready to call her parents. 

"Kate..." 

"I think he's my dad." 

She thinks she counts a full minute's frozen silence before America moves, responds at all. 

"Wh... what?" 

"Oh god," Kate groans, halfway to a sob as she drops her head briefly onto her arms, staring up at the screen of her phone from beneath her lashes. "This is _crazy,_ how did this..." 

"Kate I thought you _lived_ with your dad." 

"I do," she mumbles, because out of everything, this was the hard part, the scary part. Having her friends and classmates that her only parent, her dad was an omega had not gone well. "He... he got pregnant with me one summer, when he was sixteen." 

"Oh." 

She says it softly, without judgment, and that's more than Kate could have hoped for. 

"So... why do you think Principal Coulson..." 

"You remember how I said my jacket was my dad's? It was. He gave it to my... my _real_ dad, I mean, the one I live with when he... when he left. When I went to the meeting yesterday... he said he recognized it. Said it used to be his." 

"Whoa," America breathes. "That... that's pretty intense Kate. Did you tell your dad?" 

"No," she says, flat and cold. "I'm not gonna either. Not until I find out for sure." 

"Are you sure? I mean, this is pretty big, don't you want somebody to..." 

"I was hoping maybe you'd wanna help." 

A minute of blushing and looking away passes and then they're both smiling at each other shyly over the phone, cheeks pink. 

"I can help," America says quietly, nodding her head, and Kate feels relief sweep through her. 

"Thank you." 

"Hey, that's what friends are for!" America grins brightly. "But um, I think maybe we should just keep this between us. Cassie has a big mouth, and just..." 

"Yeah, no, you're right," she agrees. "I'd rather keep this... quiet." 

"Are you ok?" 

She asks quietly and Kate immediately feels tears start stinging at her eyes, feels herself want to shake. 

"I don't know," she murmurs, curling up on her side and hugging her pillow, phone propped up so she can still see the screen. 

Instead of pushing, instead of offering her some stupid, pointless platitude, America does the same, curling up on her bed on the other end of the phone and lets the silence stretch.


	8. Chapter 8

Phil goes home Friday night solidly drunk and not at all reassured, sleeps it off and doesn't wake up feeling that much better. No hangover, thank god – his friends pressed enough food and water on him to save him from that fate – but his mind is still unsettled and he has yet to land on a solution to his problems. 

He spends the remainder of the weekend quietly freaking out. He refuses to acknowledge the many, many texts of both one Nicolas Fury, Superintendent, and one Melinda May, Principal. He understands their concern – Phil is an employee of the school, Kate is a student – he could seriously fuck this up if he's not careful; destroy his career and his reputation and his future, not to mention that of the school itself. 

Stupid. 

He should forget this whole thing ever happened, forget about Kate, forget about _Clint,_ and yet he... 

He can't. 

It's stupid and it's self-destructive and it _hurts,_ but he can't forget. 

Fifteen years, and he hasn't been able to forget a moment. 

He gets a haircut. 

Has Lola washed and waxed. 

Picks out his very best suit and his favorite tie and spends a whole ten minutes staring at himself in the mirror, at the gnarled, ropey scar that crosses his chest and very nearly obliterates the tattoo he'd had put on over his heart the day he'd been accepted into the Rangers. 

Dark purple ink, an American Eagle in flight, but only at first glance. 

No, a hawk, wings outstretched, an arrow clutched in its talons. 

Less than half of it is left now. 

Swallowing hard, he slips his shirt on and buttons it up over the mess, the mostly-disconnected strikes and slashes of color still sunk deep into the skin. 

Monday. 

New week, new opportunity. 

He could do this. 

He arrives at the school half an hour before even he needs to be there. Unfortunately, he's still not early enough – Melinda May sits in her tough, sensible little Honda in the parking spot next to his, waiting for him. He makes a point of ignoring her as he gets out, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up what with the way she's staring at him, cataloguing every little tic and tell she likely knows better than anyone. 

"Expecting someone?" she asks coolly as they let themselves in the employee entrance and head down the empty, echoing hallways toward the front lobby. 

"I wouldn't be surprised if Miss Barton's father comes storming in this morning," he says tightly, straightening his tie, and unbearably obvious tell. "I didn't make the best of first impressions." 

"Hoping or dreading?" 

Phil doesn't answer, but Mel just squeezes his shoulder and splits off from him, heading to her office on the left side of the administration suite and leaving him to his on the right. It's quite obvious that she hadn't been expecting a response, but he doesn't have the energy or the brainpower to worry about her passive-aggressive disapproval. 

He's too busy trying to decide for himself if he's hoping or dreading Kate Barton's arrival in his office with her father. 

Closing his office door behind him, he drops his briefcase onto the floor beside his desk – empty from when he'd left in a mess on Friday. He gets his computer booted up, opens the blinds and drapes his suit jacket over the back of his chair, breathes through the clang of the first bell as students begin to trudge in and waits. 

For what exactly he isn't sure, but it never comes.

**AVAVA**

America is waiting for her at the edge of campus, right where she'd promised she would be. As her dad makes to turn into the long roundabout where all the parents are dropping off their kids, Kate tugs on the hem of his jacket – a heavy linen flak jacket – and points off to the left where she's standing near the SHIELD Public School sign. They're early so there aren't a ton of people there yet, aren't a ton of cars, so it's easy enough for him to pull over and let her off before they get anywhere near the building – exactly as she'd planned. Hopping off, she tucks her helmet away in the pannier, presses a kiss to the cold plastic face-guard of her dad's, and hurries away before he can stop her, before he can ask _again_ if she's sure she's alright.

She is – at least she thinks she is – but she's still not ready to share her suspicions. 

"Hey!" America greets gently as Kate comes walking up, swooping in on her with a surprise hug that's warm and sure and wonderful before it's over. "You ok?" 

"I don't even know," Kate laughs, but it's a lighter laugh than before, less pained, less... complicated. "I..." 

"Come on," America murmurs, and then she's taking Kate's hand in hers and tugging her up the sidewalk toward the school. 

As they turn to take the steps up to the main entrance Kate's eye is caught by a flash a bright red and she hangs back, pauses to stare. There's a car at the end of the line of cars, on the faculty side of the lot that she'd never seen there before, a bright red car all sleek and shiny, and oh god, she knows that car. 

That's a 1962 Corvette. 

She's sure of it. 

Swallowing hard, she shakes her head at America, who's waiting silently, and follows her inside, into the half-empty school and down the quiet hallways. The hair on the back of her neck is standing straight up as they pass the Principals' Offices and her steps quicken, and her shoulders don't relax until America pulls her into the Library and guides her to the furthest row of shelves, all the way to the back where there are reading chairs and a small table, where they're hidden from view of anyone who might come to the library before class. 

They're barely seated when the whole sordid tale comes tumbling out of her. 

What happened in AP Coulson's office. 

What happened that summer fifteen years ago. 

Everything her dad has ever told her about... well, about her _dad._

America listens quietly and even though Kate is practically shaking by the time her story's over, she doesn't react, doesn't sneer of scoff or... anything. It's nothing like what happened back in Iowa at her old school, nothing like the way her friends and classmates responded when they found out her father was a single omega, her uncle a drunken felon. 

America just listens. 

Then, when It's done, instead of pulling away or asking again if she's alright – god Kate's so over that question! – she asks something else instead. 

"So what do we do first?" 

Kate doesn't have to fake her relief. She practically lunges across the space between them, her turn for a surprise hung, but she doesn't even register the blush on America's cheeks as she digs her notebook out of her backpack. 

"I just... it's stupid to freak out when I'm not sure, you know?" she babbles, paging through to the list she's been working on. "I need to be sure. Then I can figure out what I'm gonna do, if I'm gonna... I mean, _how_ I'm gonna..." 

"It's ok." America's hand covers Kates and she looks up to find the other girl staring at her softly, lips quirked. "First things first. I've never heard anyone say AP Coulson's first name, but I know where we can find a yearbook."

**AVAVA**

Phil's a mess by the time lunch rolls around. He hasn't gotten any work done all day, hasn't made any of his phone calls or reviewed the proposal for the new engineering group on his desk or anything. To be truthful he's done little more than pace around the small room, peer fitfully out the window, and scribble nonsense notes on spare bits of paper.

He'd been sure Clint Barton would come storming in, either oblivious and angry, shocked and angry, or... something else and angry. 

It's how Phil would feel, if Clint had left _him_ without a goodbye. 

The fact that Phil had left him pregnant, well, that probably just adds hate to the mix and that... 

That kinda breaks his heart. 

He'd never expected to see Clint again, after all the time he'd spent looking for him. Once he'd gotten out of the Rangers he'd tracked Carson's Carnival down, flown out to Arkansas and interrogated every carnie he could, but not a one of them would speak about the archer who'd left them high and dry. Even with all his connections Phil hadn't been able to find him, and after a year and a half of searching he'd given up. 

Never stopped loving the boy he'd fallen in love with, but... stopped looking. 

Stopped hoping. 

Now, he's faced with the prospect of actually getting what he'd wanted so badly for so long and having it all thrown back in his face, having Clint come storming back into his life, rail him out, and leave again, taking his jacket, his heart, and his _daughter_ with him. 

But Clint never comes. 

"Doesn't make sense," he mutters to himself, half bitterness, half anger of his own. 

Melinda shoots him a glare from across the little lobby where she's leaning over the desk speaking with his secretary, but Phil ignores her and keeps walking. This is his school, his routine, and he can't allow a little fear to completely throw him. Maybe Clint hadn't shown up, maybe he was just as confused as Phil, but he'd been sure, _sure_ that at the very least young Kate would present herself to him at some point during the morning, if only out of sheer curiosity. 

Surely she doesn't hate him too? 

Phil scoffs, scowls at himself. 

This is counterproductive and just plain silly, waffling like, well, like a teenage girl. He doesn't really know anything about all this and all the scenarios, the two hundred and fifty-three scenarios he can think of just off the top of his head, are guesswork plain and simple. 

He has work to do. 

Phil has always taken more of a hands-on approach to teaching (and principaling) than what he remembers from his own high school days. The way he sees it, he needs to be more than just the dreaded, shadowy figure of authority if he wants to make a difference. Get to know these kids, to talk to them, you realize just how much potential they have, to become something or not. A kind word, a guiding hand, a role model can make the difference between a young life lost to poor decisions or terrible circumstances and one that goes on to change the world. 

Trawling the cafeteria during lunch period had always been his habit. It gives him facetime with his students, better enables him to spot problems before they happen, allows him to mediate and encourage and offer his attention. He's hit by the overwhelming scent of cumin – it's Taco Day – and is immediately hailed by several groups of students. 

Offering a mild wave, he starts making his rounds. 

He so determined to focus and keep his mind of off Kate, he doesn't realize his mistake until he's practically on top of her and her group of friends. 

"Principal Coulson!" 

Forcing a smile, one that feels far too tight, he turns back to the little cluster of teenagers he'd instinctively turned his back on and straightens his tie. 

"Miss Lang," he returns, far more calmly than he feels before offering the rest of them a nod – the Kaplan brothers, America Chavez, and of course Kate Barton. "Enjoying your lunch?" 

He receives a chorus of middling replies and all seems well, but for Kate Barton who is staring at him with dark, intense eyes like she's trying to memorize his face, trying to... read him. 

"Miss Barton," he hears himself say, before he means to or even realizes that he will. "I'd like to apologize again for our encounter on Friday. For... running a bit late." 

Kate tilts her head and oh god, he recognizes that gesture, chews her lip and shrugs, the shoulders of her jacket, _his_ jacket, black and glossy like it hadn't been before. It looks brand new, or at least fifteen years newer, the pins gleaming along the sleeve and his heart thumps against his ribs. 

"It's fine," she mumbles, before squaring those shoulders, thrusting out her jaw, and looking him dead in the eye. "Everybody runs late. It was Tommy's fault anyway." 

"Hey!" 

The tension is lost for a moment while the group cheers and jeers, ribs on Tommy while he laughs and throws his arm around Kate's waist in a forgiving hug. 

"Hey AP, you got any candy?" Cassie Lang asks, smile bright and sly. "Pretty please?" 

Phil offers her a wry grin in return but reaches into his pocket anyway, brings out a handful of the wrapped hard candies he likes to carry and drops them into her cupped palms. She quickly passes them around and the crinkle of cellophane is intensely loud, even as a whiff of root beer hits him over that of the spicy beef smell of the cafeteria 

"Mmm, thank you sir!" Cassie smiles. "Still not gonna tell us what this stuff is?" 

Phil opens his mouth to deny her, but Kate beats him to it. 

"It's horehound," she says coolly, even though she hasn't unwrapped her piece, is just twirling it between her fingers. Lifting her chin once more, she stares at him with a challenge so clear it hits him in the chest like a wrecking ball. "You get it at the circus, only it comes in sticks and you suck it to stop your throat getting scratchy." 

He can't breathe. 

He just stands there like an idiot, staring at her, knowing, _knowing_ that he was right. 

"Very good Miss Barton," he finally manages, licking his lips. Nodding to the group, he doesn't drop her gaze. "Enjoy your afternoon." 

Turning on his heel, he scrapes up the very last of his calm and uses it to stop himself from fleeing the room at a dead run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? Well?!
> 
> In other news : BeneficialAddiction is looking for a beta for her CC Holiday Exchange fanwork and is accepting applications below :)


	9. Chapter 9

Phillip J Coulson. 

That's his name – America had found it for her in an old SHIELD yearbook – so he hadn't lied about that at least. 

It's him. 

Kate had thought that certainty would make her feel better, but it doesn't, not at all. She's anxious, scared, angry and curious, all at the same time, and it makes her distracted and sick to her stomach. A big part of her wishes she had never come to this school, that her dad had never told her about her... her _father,_ but another part of her... 

She doesn't know. 

It's the part of her that makes her eyes follow Assistant Principal Coulson across the cafeteria every day, the part of her that listens intently whenever another kid mentions his name in the hallway. She's looking, like, actively looking for something to prove that he's a bad guy – weird or creepy or mean – and she can't find it which makes her feel like a total bitch. 

America sticks close, offering silent support, and tells her whatever she can whenever she asks in a calm voice totally free of judgement, which Kate probably deserves. The kids at SHIELD love AP Coulson, who always has time for a student who needs to talk, who works hard to build up under-funded programs or promote equality and visibility amongst under-represented groups. In the week that's passed since she'd needled him about the candy in the caf she hasn't seen or heard a single thing that sets off her alarm bells, and she is absolutely pissed. 

It doesn't make sense, she knows that. 

To be honest it's probably something she should be talking to a therapist about. 

They'd probably be able to point out to her that it makes sense she's angry; that the reason she wants to scream every time she sees Coulson comfort a student or offer support to a colleague is because deep down she feels jealous, wants him to be doing that for her and her dad. 

Which is just stupid... 

Right? 

Her dad is awesome, her dad is Clint Barton, the Amazing Hawkeye. 

_Her_ dad is The World's Greatest Marksman, the coolest dad out there that can make her the world's greatest chocolate chip cookies one day then turn around and drop her off at school on a badass motorcycle  
the next. 

What does she want _another_ dad for? 

It's driving her nuts. 

Really, it was only a matter of time before she snapped. 

They're back in the cafeteria, Friday afternoon, and she's lucky that she hasn't been put off lunch altogether at this point. She's sitting with Cassie and America, Tommy and Billy and Teddy all pigging out on pizza across the table, and she's watching Coulson surreptitiously as he makes his way down the lines of tables, unreasonably irked by the fact that he always studiously ignores her as he makes his rounds. 

It's her own fault of course – she'd been pretty stiff and cold that day, and it's not like she's gone looking for his company or his approval – but there's still a simmering, childish urge to stamp her foot bubbling away in the pit of her belly as she watches him get closer, as he ignores the tension that probably only she feels and refuses to even glance in her direction. 

She doesn't – she's not _actually_ four ok? 

She _does_ start whistling Entry of the Gladiators. 

Cassie looks at her like she's insane. 

All three of the boys go dead still, pizza halfway to their mouths, sauce dripping off Tommy's chin. 

Coulson, well, Coulson's shoulders go high and tight and he turns around sharply on his heels to face her, his face blank and closed off. 

"Do we have a problem here Miss Barton?" he asks, and she's not dumb or naïve enough to miss the fact that she's playing with some serious fire here, even if he sounds as calm as he ever does. 

"You tell me, Mr. Coulson," she fires back, stupid mouth running ahead of her brain, Barton family flaw. 

Coulson straightens up imperceptibly, silently assessing before he runs a hand casually down his tie. 

"Well I certainly don't know why you're feeling so upset," he says easily, "But if you'd like someone to talk to..." 

"You don't know anything about me!" she snaps, furious that he's condescending to her, telling her how she feels, even as all the stupid, stupid subconscious hurts come rushing up out of her like she's going to explode. 

She wants to shout, she wants to cry, she wants to _hit_ him, and yet somehow she finds herself completely paralyzed, unable to move even as she starts shaking like a leaf. 

Coulson's staring at her, so cool and collected and _unaffected_ that yes, she does want to hit him, to slap at his chest and kick him in the shins and bury her face in his neck and make him hug her, and... 

And... 

And no, that's _not_ what she wants, she doesn't... 

"To be perfectly fair Miss Barton," he says flatly, shooting his cuffs and fiddling with his stupid cufflinks, "I could say the same for you." 

And then he just... turns away. 

Turns around and makes to walk away, _again,_ like he has any right to walk away from her when he... 

"You were supposed to be an Army Ranger!" she blurts out, shoving to her feet so hard and fast that she bangs against the lunch table and nearly sends a couple of trays skittering. 

Coulson stops dead, turns back around to face her and his face is pale, his hands fisted at his sides as the students in their immediate vicinity go stunned silent. 

It should be enough of a warning – she needs to shut up, _shut up you idiot, shut up!_ – but it doesn't stop her, doesn't stop all the old stories from flooding through her head, all her dad's soft, tender words from echoing in her ears. 

"You were supposed to be an Army Ranger," she says again, plucking up her courage and pulling her shoulders back, unaware that it's the same move that he had just pulled, a nearly identical gesture. "You have a sister named Beth, and you didn't learn how to swim until you were seventeen, but you can juggle like you've been doing it your whole life." 

What little color Coulson still had left bleeds out of his face and he's looking at her like he's _scared,_ but she doesn't stop, the words pressing against her breastbone like they'll choke her if she doesn't spit them out. 

"Your stupid car's called Lola," she continues, heart slamming against her ribs, "And you're a total Captain America fangirl, only you never wanted anyone to know. You..." 

She chokes, and tears sting her eyes, but she tries anyway, tries to get the last bit out, the most important part... 

"You made promises you didn't keep."

**AVAVA**

Phil can actually _feel_ his face crack.

He'd manage to keep it together in the face of young Kate's ire, the fun facts that she'd hurled at him like accusations. 

She certainly is her father's daughter – each one hits its mark dead on – and once again he's hurled back in time to that summer he'd spent whispering promises into the ear of the man who to this day still knew him better, knew him truer than anyone else ever had. 

Promises... 

She nearly breaks as she chokes out that whisper, her voice cracking, a single tear rolling down her cheek, and he wants more than anything to gather her against his chest, stroke her hair and let her cry and reassure her that she's wrong. 

_'I'll never forget you.'_

_'I'll never stop loving you.'_

_'You're mine now. You'll always be mine. No matter what.'_

And that jacket, that god-forsaken leather jacket that he'd wrapped so tightly around her father's shoulders, used to pull him in to a kiss so deep he can still feel it all these years later is now draped over hers – thin shoulders shaking as the emotions overwhelm her. 

"I kept every one of those promises," he hears himself say, but his own words are swallowed up into a wide silence, like he's murmuring them into the dark. 

Kate sobs, a strangled, aching sound, and then she's running. 

Well, _stalking_ maybe, head held high and shoulders back as she marches at a carefully controlled pace from the room, and Phil doesn't think he's ever been prouder of one of his students than he is of her in that moment. 

Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose before collecting the scraps of his dignity and his heart off the floor. 

"Miss Chavez," he says calmly, proud of himself that his own voice doesn't shake. "Be a friend and check on Miss Barton. I believe you'll find her on the drama theater balcony." 

He's guessing, but if Kate is anything like Clint she'll have inherited the Hawkeye penchant for high places. 

"If you can, convince her to come down to the office," he suggests, grateful when America does nothing more than nod and ask no questions. "I'll give her father a call – I think it best if she goes home for the afternoon." 

"Yes sir," America squeaks, and then she's darting out of the cafeteria after Kate, leaving Phil alone in a room full of students all gone horrifyingly silent, watching the hideous drama unfold. 

Oh god, what's he done. 

Luckily he doesn't have to find a way to escape his own cafeteria without looking like a whipped dog – Melinda May comes striding across the floor like a cool breeze and very suddenly every student seems to recall that they have somewhere else to be, something else to do but stare at him and his miniature, personal crisis. 

"Coulson with me." 

Any other time he would have balked at the order, but this time he's damned thankful for it; snaps to attention and follows in her wake, thankful that her reputation precedes the both of them and wraps them in a bubble of invisibility that nearly makes him feel safe. 

"What the hell was that?" May hisses as soon as they've broken out into the hallway, blessedly cool against his heated cheeks and completely deserted. "I thought you had this under control Coulson." 

"I did!" he argues, slumping against a conveniently nearby wall, feeling like his strings have been cut. _"She_ confronted _me;_ what was I supposed to..." 

"You were supposed to handle it!" May snaps, throwing up her hands in an uncharacteristic display of exasperation. "Have you even spoken to him?" 

"Well I have to _now,_ don't I?!" 

Phil freezes, his mind completely shutting down in that moment. 

_Shit FUCK,_ he does, doesn't he? 

He can't, he _can't_ do it, he's not... 

He's not _ready,_ he doesn't know _how,_ he'd never thought he'd get the chance... 

"Breathe Coulson." 

Breathe, breathing, yeah, he can do that, he can... 

"I'll call her father," May says quietly, already pulling her work phone from her pocket. "Take five minutes, pull yourself together. Fix your _hair."_

She says it with annoyance, with mild disgust, and he's glad because that's normal, that's her. 

He nods, takes a shaky breath and walks away from her without another word, all the way to his office which he locks himself inside. He's got his own tiny bathroom there, nothing more than a closet with a toilet and a sink, and splashing a bit of cold water on his face actually does make him feel a tiny bit better. Staring at himself in the mirror, he lets Kate Barton's words replay in his head, an endless loop of unflinching proof that she _is_ Clint Barton's daughter, _his_ Clint Barton. 

Nearly everything she'd said was true, everything but that very last. 

Clint _had_ taught him to swim that summer, in the creek behind the circus grounds. Taught him to juggle too, though that had taken a lot less time. He'd told him all about his Cap collection, whispered fantasies about one day owning a '62 Vette called Lola and driving outta there, driving anywhere... 

And then the day had finally come when he _did_ have to leave, and he would have given almost anything to stay. 

But he hadn't. 

Hadn't even been able to say goodbye. 

Looking back now, he can admit to himself that he had taken the coward's way out, kissing a sleeping Clint on the forehead, blanketing him with his beloved leather jacket, and slipping away in the night. 

But it had been the only way he could keep all those promises he'd made, the only way he could... 

It was that or truly say goodbye, that or give him up completely. 

He hadn't been brave enough to do that either. 

"Coulson." 

May's knock on the door snaps him out of his musings - he doesn't know how much time he's lost to his pounding heart and his fear, the resounding sense of loss swelling so big in his chest. She's waiting for him when he opens the door, blank-faced and unreadable, and gives nothing away about what his own expression says. 

"He's here," she states flatly, no hint of what judgement she would pass upon this mess. 

Sighing shakily, Phil nods, straightens his lapels, and steps out of his office into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Julius. I don't think he got what he was hoping for with this one...
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_B0CyOAO8y0


	10. Chapter 10

Clint's hands shake as he climbs into his pickup truck and pulls out onto the road. His heart had practically jumped into his throat when his phone had flashed the high school's number across it's screen in the middle of the afternoon, and Principal May hadn't exactly been very reassuring when she'd spoken to him. 

Emotional outburst – what did that even mean? 

That didn't sound like Kate, that... 

Ok, that sounded a little bit like Kate, but not at school, not in the cafeteria. 

What had happened, why had she... 

Clint takes a deep breath, squeezes the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. 

Ok, it's ok, May had said she was alright, just needed a... what had she called it, a mental health day? He's not a hundred percent sure what that means but he can work with that right? He should have done that already, should have sat her down and talked to her because he'd _known_ something was wrong, just... 

Just not what. 

Ten minutes later he whips his beater-truck into an empty spot at the back of the parking lot and jumps down, forces himself not to run to the front steps. If Kate really had melted down in the cafeteria in front of half her classmates, the last thing she needs is for her dad to come barging in on the warpath. No; calm, cool, collected – that's what he needs to be, that's what he... 

What he absolutely does not feel as he pushes through the doors, his heart still thumping away inside his chest. 

The hallway is deserted, thank god – apparently it's the middle of a class period, but what does... 

"Dad!" 

Clint pauses, hand out to pull open the door to the administration offices when Kate's voice rings out, her boots clomping as she comes around a corner and barrels up the hallway toward him. He's ready when she hits him, arms open to catch her, and he's got her wrapped up against his chest before his brain even registers her red eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks. She's trembling all over, shaking hard, and she presses her face against his chest as she chokes on a sob, clutching at his t-shirt. 

"Hey, hey, I've got you baby, you're ok," he promises, because even though he doesn't know what's going on, he'll _make_ her ok. "Easy Katie-Cat. I'm right here, you're ok." 

"Um, Mr. Barton?" the young girl tailing Kate interrupts, startling him because he hadn't even realized she was there. "I've got Kate's stuff..." 

"Thanks," Kate sniffs, suddenly pushing herself back and scrubbing at her face with the cuff of her jacket. Running her fingers through her hair, she visibly pulls herself together before grabbing the bag from her friend. "Thanks America." 

Oh. 

So _this_ was America. 

"Come on," Kate says before he can introduce himself, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the doors. "I need to leave, let's just..." 

"Woah, hey, Katie," he stalls, pulling back. "What's goin' on? Your principal called me, we..." 

"It's _fine,_ let's just _go,"_ she insists, still tugging at him. "We..." 

"Mr. Barton?" 

Clint frowns, turns toward the admin doors which have just swung open. A man is stepping out into the hallway; middle-aged, nice suit, professional – but there's a hesitance in the slope of his shoulders that sets Clint on edge, a nervousness that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. One glance and Clint reads him like a book, all guilt and nervousness, and he's ready to go Papa Bear on this guy like the flip of a switch because _something_ is going on, _someone_ has upset his little girl more than she's ever... 

Clint's mind jerks to a halt, sends a tingle zipping down his spine because holy shit, he recognizes those eyes. 

Wicked kind, gorgeous blues, god damn does he remember those eyes. 

Clint's breath catches in his throat as he's sent spinning back in time, nearly an entire lifetime ago, to the summer he'd spent falling for a guy with those same baby blues, to the summer he'd... 

HO-LY SHIT. 

No way, _no way_ was this... 

"Dad, come _on,_ let's just _leave, please..."_

_"Phil?"_ he breathes, tilting his head and staring, because it can't be, it can't... 

"Clint." 

It's the way he says it. His voice is deeper, yeah, more mature, but it's still the way he says it, all soft and fond and a little sad, that puts Clint right back in that moment all those years ago. Just like that, one word, his name said in a way he's heard in his dreams for so long, and he knows. 

A smile slowly spreads across his face, a warmth filling up his chest like he hasn't felt in forever, and he reaches out dumbly toward his daughter with one hand, to pull her forward, to stop her slapping at him... 

"Come on, come on, I wanna _leave!"_

"Wait, what?" he frowns, blinking as the distress in her voice sucks him right back out of the moment, out of the happy impossibility he's just stumbled into, back to reality where everything is most definitely _not_ ok. "Kate, hey, what... this is..." 

"No!" she shouts, stamping her foot and clenching her hands into fists, the tears rolling freely again as she stands shaking in front of him. "He's _not_ my dad - _you_ are! He _left_ you, he left _us,_ he's _not_ my dad, now let's _go!"_

And then she's bolting, slamming through the doors and dashing away down the steps, gone without another word. Clint stands there for... far too long, his mouth hanging open like an idiot, his heart in his throat, but then he's looking around – at America who's hunched and nearly cringing, at _Phil_ who... 

But he can't because Kate needs him, his daughter who doesn't have anyone else and who's _freaking out_ and he can't, no matter how much he wants to. 

"Sorry," he breathes, as heartfelt and broken as anything he's ever said, and then he's turning and _he's_ leaving, walking away when it nearly kills him to do it. 

Darting out onto the steps, he can't even begin to explain the relief he feels when he spies Kate sitting in the passenger side of his truck, slapping at the dash with short, hard, rabbit-punches that will fuck up her wrists good if she doesn't stop, but that's the last thing he's worried about right now. 

She'd... she'd _known,_ how could she... 

Doesn't matter Barton, doesn't matter, she _needs you..._

Jogging over to the truck, he pulls her door open only to be pulled away from, anger and hurt flashing across his daughter's face as she folds in on herself and hiccoughs for breath. 

"Just take me _home,"_ she sobs, refusing to look at him, and he doesn't know how to do this so it seems like as good an idea as any he could come up with. 

Licking his lips nervously, he swallows hard and nods, squeezes her arm even though she obviously doesn't want him to. 

"Ok," he agrees, his knees suddenly going loose. "Yeah, yeah, ok..." 

The ride home is silent except for the irritable grumble of the truck's engine and Kate's hitched breathing, the dull, rapid thump of his own heart in his ears. It hurts and he's confused and more than anything he's _scared,_ because Kate's all crunched up in the corner against the door refusing to talk, and that had... well that had just sucked. 

But then halfway through the ride he puts out his hand, and she grabs onto it so hard he doesn't think she'll ever let go. 

He's pretty sure he's ok with that. 

They make it home and he somehow manages to get her out of the truck and up to their apartment without ever letting go of her, climbs into the corner of the couch and wraps his arm around her shoulders. It's then that he realizes she's wearing his jacket, wearing _their_ jacket – and isn't that a kick in the gut that it belongs to all three of them now. The steel pins are cool against his fingers and he wonders if Phil had recognized it, if Phil had guessed who she was... 

Aw crap, does _Phil_ know? 

"Kate, what happened?" 

It comes out a little more accusatory than he'd meant it to, a little louder in his confusion, and he feels her flinch against his side, immediately leans down to hug her tight and press his cheek to the top of her head. 

"Shit, 'm sorry," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut, kissing her hair. "I didn't mean it like that. Just... I'm a little confused here baby. Help your old man out?" 

"I yelled at him," Kate mumbles, picking at a thread on her jeans. "I figured it out and I... _oh god,_ I yelled at him in front of the whole cafeteria!" 

"Hey, hey, it'll be ok," Clint shushes, his stomach rolling because seriously, he can't deal with the possibility of social suicide on top of all the rest. "One thing at a time Katie-Cat; you're alright." 

It takes her a minute – she has to work through a bit of a cry first – but she pulls it together again and takes a deep breath, shivers. 

"Is this what you've been so upset about?" he asks quietly, because he might not be a genius but things are starting to click. 

"Yeah," she admits, sounding miserable and oddly guilty. "I mean I... I wasn't _trying_ to lie; I wasn't sure and I didn't want..." 

Didn't want what? 

God what he wouldn't give to be able to read her mind every once in a while – she doesn't... she doesn't think he'd _abandon her_ does she? 

"Nothing changes ok?" he says, abruptly desperate to reassure her, to make up for all the things he's obviously done so wrong. "Katie, _you_ are the most important person in the world. Nothing changes." 

"But you love him." 

Clint sighs, sinks back into the cushions and actually takes a second to analyze that moment back at the school, when he'd realized who he was standing in front of. That feeling was the same as it ever was, all that warmth and happiness flooding back in on him all at once, but he knows it's not really real. 

"I used to," he says slowly, trying to figure out his own feelings while trying to figure out the right things to say at the same time. "A long time ago. But I'm a different person now and so is he." 

"But you..." 

"No buts," he insists, turning on the couch to take her face between his hands and make her look at him, because she needs to hear it and he needs to know that she hears it. "No one is as important to me as you are ok? You're my daughter and I love you, and nothing is going to change that." 

Kate bites her lip, tears streaming down her face, and it's clear that she's fighting something, holding something back, and he can practically feel his heart break as her face crumbles. 

"But what if he takes me away?" 

She barely manages to whisper it but her question is still like a knife stuck in his chest, like ice flashing through his whole body. He hadn't even considered that, hadn't even thought, and here is his strong, beautiful, smart little girl, absolutely terrified of something that he literally cannot protect her from. 

Clint's an omega. 

Phil's an Alpha. 

The only reason he has full legal custody of his daughter is because he's never been fought for that custody. 

If Phil wants to he can demand a paternity test, take Clint to court, and have Kate living with him by the end of the year, hardly any questions asked. 

"I will _never_ let that happen," he vows, wrapping her up in his arms as tight as he can, his own eyes stinging. "I promise."


	11. Chapter 11

She's hard to console. 

His fault, not hers. 

It's tough to be reassuring when you're not sure of what you're saying yourself. 

Oh, he'd told her the truth – he won't let anyone take her away from him. Not that he knows _how_ he would do that, given the shitty secondary-gender laws that still exist, but he'd figure it out. To be honest, despite his initial surge of fear, he doesn't really think it will be an issue. He doesn't think Phil would ever _dream_ of taking her... 

But that thought brings him up short. 

The rest of what he'd said had been true too – they're not the same care-free teenagers they used to be. He doesn't know anything about this new, grown-up Phil, so different in his suit from the leather-clad run-away bad boy he used to love. 

Still loves... 

It's weird, trying to figure that out. He puzzles over it as he makes himself and Kate peanut-butter-and-jellies for dinner; his immediate, happy response to seeing Phil. He knows that the part of him that's still sixteen will always be in love with the memory of what they'd had, but now? 

What does he want now? 

He and Kate talk a little bit more over their sandwiches. Fear appeased by his promises, her faith in him so much greater than his faith in himself, she's quiet and hesitant with her words, tells him exactly what had happened in the cafeteria, what had caused her 'emotional outburst.' He doesn't blame her – a week of panicking, a week of freaking out, of not knowing and fearing what she might learn... he doesn't blame her. As she spills the story he realizes just how much he'd talked about Phil over the course of her life, the way in which he'd talked about him, so much and so fondly that his daughter had come away with the distinct impression that he's still in love, her calculating mind loaded down with facts she could hurl at her absent father like ammunition. 

Had he really done that, even after all this time, fifteen years later? Spoken about Phil like it was only yesterday, like he's still completely and utterly besotted with the man? 

"What do we do now?" Kate asks, still sounding young and small and ashamed. "What..." 

"Well," Clint sighs, putting their plates into the dishwasher and turning around to hug her tight. "To be honest kiddo, I'm not really sure. I never thought I'd see him again, so as far as _we_ go... I dunno." 

Sighing, he leads her by the hand into the living room and tugs her down onto the couch beside him, squeezes her fingers and ducks to meet her gaze. 

"What about you though?" he asks. "I mean he... he is _your_ dad too." 

"You're my dad," she mumbles petulantly, and it probably isn't great that he's instantly filled up with a smug, happy warmth, with relief. "I... I don't know. Does that... dad, does that make me a bad person?" 

"Aw Katie, no," Clint murmurs, dragging her in close and kissing the top of her head. "This would be hard on anybody. But I meant what I said Katie-Cat; _you_ are the most important person in this thing. I'm always gonna take care of you first, and... and if Phil is anything like the guy he used to be, he's gonna do the same thing." 

"So you _are_ gonna talk to him." 

Clint chuckles at the obvious accusation in her voice, unsurprised that that is the thing she'd taken from his little speech. It's not too heated though, not angry, far less scared, so he grins and scrubs his hand playfully over her head. 

"Yeah, between the three of us, somebody needs to be the responsible adult," he says, tickling her ribs even as she slaps at his hands. "Might as well be me." 

"Pfft, you just wanna find out if he's single," she grouses, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes, and Clint pulls up short. 

"I..." 

"Look, I don't wanna go live with him ok?" Kate says suddenly, insistently, her brow creasing in a frown. "I don't...' 

Clint's heart sinks as her eyes fill with tears, as her lip wobbles and she wraps her arms tight around her ribs, makes herself small. 

"I don't want anything to change." 

"Oh baby." 

Lunging forward, Clint grabs her up in a fierce hug, holding her as close as he can and burying his face in her hair. The smell of her shampoo has always been comforting, even as it changed from Johnson&Johnson to Strawberry Fairy to Herbal Essences, and it brings back a lifetime of memories that she's clearly afraid of losing somehow. 

"I will _never_ leave you," he whispers into her ear, a vow if he's ever made one. "You are the most important person in my life, and you always will be." 

"I know that..." she stumbles, sounding terribly, painfully unsure, her fingers flexing around his arms where she clutches at him. "And it's not..." 

Sighing, she sits back and drags her fingers through her hair, huffs like the teenager she is. 

"It's not like I don't want you to date," she says miserably, and his heart humps because she'd told him that before, so he's not sure where this is going. "I just..." 

"Don't want me to date _him?"_

Kate blushes hard and she squirms in her seat, obviously uncomfortable. She's chewing her lip again and Clint knows how she feels, because very suddenly he wants to stomp his feet and bitch about how horribly _unfair_ that is. He hadn't even realized he maybe wanted to do that until she'd shot the idea down, and how can he... how does he... 

"I don't know," she says quietly, refusing to meet his eyes. "And I know that's not fair. I know you... I know you love him..." 

"I _used to,"_ he argues immediately, but it feels less right than it had the last time he'd said it. "I..." 

"You totally do," Kate argues right back, and Clint doesn't really want to fight her on it because she sounds so much more like his strong, brave, independent kid than she had five minutes ago, he doesn't want to ruin it. "You _sound_ like you do..." 

"Maybe," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I... I miss him. Does that make sense?" 

Kate just frowns, shifts in her seat. 

"Never mind," he sighs, getting up off the couch. It's really not something he should be talking to her about anyway. Maybe he can call Natasha – she won't kill him for interrupting her current job if it's actually important. "Listen, if anything I need to call him as your principal and get everything squared, all right?" 

Kate freezes, her eyes wide. 

"Oh. My god," she breathes, staring across the room. "I called him out in front of half the school. I called out the assistant principal... in front of half the school..." 

Clint barks a laugh, shrugs off her glare. 

"Don't worry about it Katie-Cat," he reassures her. "It might be a rough couple days, but high school hasn't changed that much from when I was a kid. Something will happen, somebody will say something, and they'll forget all about you. You won't be the first student that shouted down a teacher and you won't be the last." 

"You're... you're not mad?" 

"I think we all could have handled this better," he replies with a frown, thinking. "But I get it. I'll give him a call, see if we can have a talk this weekend, before you head back. That way we can clear up any school stuff and maybe..." 

Cursing under his breath, he throws up his hands, then quickly spins around and crouches down in front of her, grabbing her hands. 

"Look, I don't know, ok?" he confesses, letting her squeeze his fingers tight. "I don't. I don't know what all he might think or want or... but I owe him the truth. I owe him an explanation." 

"He owes _us_ one," Kate snaps, and Clint grins widely, because hell yeah, that's his girl. Can't make him happier, her using the word _'us,'_ including herself. 

That shows interest, investment. 

That's a good thing. 

"Maybe," he acknowledges, "But he can't give us one if we don't let him, right? 

"I guess." 

Getting to his feet, Clint smacks a kiss to her forehead and ruffles her hair one more time, because she loves and hates it in equal turns. 

"All right then," he says quietly. "We've got a plan. Don't worry, ok baby? I'll get this all figured out." 

Kate licks her lips, then nods, gets up off the couch and hugs him, quick and hard. 

"I'm, uh... gonna go call America ok?" she mumbles, and Clint nods, sure without asking that she doesn't want to hear him talk to Phil. "Maybe we can watch Dog Cops later?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Cool," she grins, and then she's trotting off up the stairs to her room, leaving him to collapse back onto the couch and stare at his phone like it's some kind of live grenade. 

This... 

This is crazy. 

Fifteen years, almost sixteen, and here's the guy he'd fallen head-over-heels for, that he never thought he'd ever see again, right here, back in his life. His boyfriend, his _best friend,_ the father of his child, and he... 

Damn, had he looked good. 

Granted, Clint hadn't gotten that good a look, but his eyes were the same; those devilish, kind blue eyes that had so captivated him that summer. 

The suit didn't hurt. 

Shit, he's wasting time. 

A glance at the clock tells him it's only just gone half-past four; he'd gotten Katie from school around, what, one? Phil should still be at the school right? 

"SHIELD Public Schools administration office, how may I help you?" 

"Um, hi," Clint says nervously, clearing his throat. "This is, um, Clint Barton. I need to speak with Phil, um, the Assistant Principal?" 

"Please hold." 

Well. 

That was easy. 

It's not though, he thinks, as the quiet elevator-style music plays in his ear. None of this is easy. 

And yet... 

And yet at the same time it is. 

That warm, happy, easy feeling he'd felt on first seeing Phil again is still there, sitting just underneath his ribs, filling up his chest and it's good; it's giddiness and excitement and hope and maybe that's stupid, but he... 

"Hello Clint." 

His heart thumps hard in his throat and Clint smiles. 

"Hey Phil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written mature, responsible-adult Clint before. I think I love him.


	12. Chapter 12

Saturday afternoon is far too slow in coming if you ask Clint's humble opinion. He and Phil had spoken only briefly the day before, deciding that it would be better to talk in person, and he'd spent the night tossing and turning in giddy, terrified anticipation. He's dreading and eagerly awaiting the meet-up in turns, fear and hope churning heavily in the pit of his stomach, and above all things he's worried about his daughter. 

Kate doesn't really respond when he tells her the plan. She looks miserable, nods her head weakly and keeps her eyes down, starts chewing on her fingernails, a habit she hates that she has. He can hardly do anything but sigh and wrap her up in a hug, promise her it's all going to be ok, and even then he's not sure she believes him. She makes plans to go over to America's house to spend the night, after Clint has checked in with Amalia and Elena Chavez, and he hopes that the impromptu sleepover will be both a distraction and a way of cheering her up. 

He's glad she's making friends here, but he's glad too that she'll have somewhere to be and things to do that will keep her mind off of... well, everything. 

Clint's doing more than enough ruminating for them both thanks very much. 

"It's not a date Clint," Natasha warns over Skype as Clint rips through his closet. "What are you even hoping for?" 

Clint swallows and refuses to glance over at the screen – he can hear the frustration and confusion in her voice, and when Natasha Romanov is frustrated and confused, you know things are bad. 

"I know it's stupid ok? I _know_ that," he insists, his shoulders slumping. "But I need to... make a good impression." 

Natasha sighs, and he knows without looking that she's wearing her pity face. This is serious business – this casual talk over coffee. He's about to tell an Alpha that he's had his child and kept it from him for years; no small feat even if it wasn't exactly Clint's fault that he couldn't come clean. The fear and the anxiety and the needing to keep Kate safe and close is all tangled up with this connection, this fondness and love he still feels for a teenager who's not a teenager anymore, and he doesn't know what to do with any of it. 

"Wear the sweater I bought you," Natasha says quietly, "And your good jeans." 

Clint tosses her a smile, ignores the way she's glaring at him from whatever secure Army base she's stationed at now. 

"Thanks Nat," he grins, and her eyes narrow. 

"It's not a da..." 

He'll pay for closing the laptop on her later. 

For now he just sighs with relief. 

He runs through a quick shower and shave, glad that he'd already dropped Kate off at her friend's house even if it had been difficult, even if they'd hugged each other extra long and hard before he'd driven away. He doesn't think he could've hidden his excitement, his giddiness from her any better than he'd done, and the closer he gets to stepping out the door the harder it is to contain it all. 

He looks good. 

He maybe even stole a little bit of Kate's eyeliner before he left. 

He remembers how much Phil had liked that look on him all those years ago. 

God, he is so screwed. 

He doesn't think about anything on the ride over. It's kind of crazy, but his head actually goes quiet except for the roar of the bike beneath him. It's nice, calming, and lord knows he needs that. When he pulls up to the curb at the address he'd been given he's not surprised to see a neat little two-story condo waiting, complete with a proverbial picket fence in front, and all his nerves come flooding back into his stomach like they'd never left. He manages to hold it together though, leaves his bike on the little paved drive leading down to what must be sub-level parking. 

He can't breathe as he climbs the steps to the front door, his heart pounding in his chest. 

His hands actually shake as he reaches out to knock. 

Then the door opens and Phil is standing there in jeans and sock feet and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms and it's like nothing's ever been wrong. 

"Hey," he breathes, that stupid grin he can't help tugging at his mouth again and a jolt of hot electricity running through his core. 

Something in Phil's face seems to crumple at the greeting and his shoulders cave forward, like he'd been preparing himself for a punch in the face and can relax now that he realizes it's not coming. His eyes sparkle the way they used to and the corner of his mouth ticks in an aborted smile the way it always did, and when he steps back to wave Clint through the door he can't help but brush past him on his way in, setting all sorts of butterflies to fluttering in the pit of his stomach. 

He toes off his boots and hangs his jacket in the entryway, well aware that Phil's eyes are on him the entire time. He doesn't mind the attention but he wonders what it means, worries what it means, and the expression on Phil's face when he turns around doesn't reassure him. 

"God, it's so good to see you," he hears himself say, and surprise flashes across Phil's face. 

"Is it?" he asks carefully, hesitantly. "I didn't think... I mean, I wasn't sure..." 

Clint moves before he thinks, with a desperate need to make Phil understand, to make him believe. Before he knows it, he's got his arms wrapped around Phil and is holding him as tight and close as he can, his face buried in the curve of Phil's shoulder. He freezes for a moment, clearly shocked, but then he melts into Clint's hold and it's so perfectly reminiscent of how they used to be that Clint feels like he's been forcibly thrown back in time almost sixteen years. 

They're both taller, but Clint's still got an inch or two on Phil. 

They're both broader, but their arms still weave around each other effortlessly. 

They're two completely different people, but they're clutching at each other like they'd never stopped all those years ago, and Clint can feel his heart cracking right down the middle. 

"I missed you," Phil chokes, crushing Clint even closer, and he has to bite down on a whimper in response. 

"Missed you," Clint mumbles right back, and Phil's fingers tighten on his hips, shake. 

"I'm sorry," he breathes desperately, ducking his head and nuzzling at Clint's temple, sliding his arms around Clint's waist. "I'm sorry. Clint, I..." 

"I missed you," he interrupts, because, no, that's wrong, that's not fair. "God Phil, I missed you so much. I still miss you; every day, I..." 

And then they're kissing. 

He didn’t expect it, doesn't think he's the one who started it, but it doesn't matter. 

Holy hell does it not matter. 

The only thing that matters is that Phil is right here in front of him, in his arms, under his hands, kissing him like no time has passed at all. Clint presses back against him, drags him in close, bites and sucks and tries to breathe him in, tries to consume him as surely as he himself is being consumed. There's fire and flame burning him up, electricity and heat and all the old, good things coursing through his veins, and who is he to fight it after all this time, loving the cherished memory of the man setting him alight? 

Phil's fingers creep into the hair at the nape of his neck, his tongue doing that wicked thing Clint remembers so well, and his other hand grips Clint's belt tight. The suggestion of a tug, that's all it takes, and then suddenly they're stumbling down the hallway groping each other like teenagers, as the fire burned bright and devoured.

**AVAVA**

"Wow!" Phil grunts, dropping onto his back hard enough that the mattress bounces and what little air there is left in his lungs gets knocked back out again. "That was..."

"Damn right," Clint huffs beside him, trying to laugh even as he pants, sprawled across Phil's bed with his clothes all crooked and his hair sweaty. _"That_ hasn't changed." 

Phil barks a laugh, because damn, it really, _really_ hasn't. Sex hasn't been this good since... well, since _Clint,_ since he was a _teenager,_ and given that they'd both gone off in their pants after fifteen minutes of rolling around in his sheets, kissing and humping and stroking over their clothes, it's a pretty good analogy. 

Slowly his pounding heartbeat eases, the crackling sparks of orgasm fading from his skin, and the overwhelming rush of lust and love and sheer _thankfulness_ begins to fade. As he stares at the ceiling insecurities begin to creep back up, all his concerns from the last few weeks stealing back into his mind, and he quietly begins to panic right there in the twisted bedsheets. 

He hadn't meant for this to happen. 

Hadn't planned it, hadn't dreamed it was even a possibility, but here they were, lying side by side as they try to catch their breath, grinning stupidly at the ceiling... 

To think that they'd wound up here like this after so much time, to think that he feels the same, deep stirrings in his chest that he had the very day he'd up and left so long ago... 

Oh god, what is he _doing?!_

"Hey," Clint murmurs, and Phil blinks, turns his head to find the man staring at him with those all-seeing Hawkeye blues. "You regretting this?" 

"No!" he blurts, hand sweeping the bed until he finds Clint's and tangles their fingers together. "No, I just... this wasn't why I asked you over. I didn't mean to..." 

"You didn't pressure me into anything here Phil," Clint murmurs, turning onto his side. "We're both consenting adults; we aren't hurting anyone. Right?" 

"Right," he insists, picking up on Clint's sudden hesitancy. "I'm not... I mean there's not anybody else..." 

"Oh. Um. Me either." 

Phil feels a smile pulling at his mouth and he doesn't know why, doesn't want to examine the feeling too closely because that way lay madness. 

"What about Kate?" 

_...Shit._

He hadn't meant to say that, had meant to let Clint be the one to... 

Clint stares at him, mouth quirked thoughtfully, then he lifts his free hand and drags it slowly down Phil's chest. 

"This?" he says quietly, his eyes following the path his hand takes. "This is between you and me. Consenting adults remember? I'm here to talk about the rest of it, if that... if that's something you want." 

"I want," Phil promises, and there's probably too much of the truth in his voice but it makes Clint's whole face light up. "But if memory serves, I've only got about three more minutes with you before you're out for the count." 

A slow smile curls over Clint's face and he closes his eyes, rolls onto his back and stretches slow and languid. 

"That's what coffee's for," he hums, before cracking an eye and peering at him hopefully. 

Phil laughs, brushes his hand through Clint's hair before pushing himself up and out of bed. 

"Alright, alright," he agrees, stepping gingerly over to the dresser. "We should probably clean up anyway." 

Clint casts a look down the length of his own body, pulls a face like a disgusted cat. 

"Bathroom's through there," Phil says with a laugh, jerking his chin toward the door as he tosses an extra pair of sweats onto the bed. "I'm going to grab a shower – you're welcome to join me if you'd like." 

"Oh god," Clint groans, his head dropping back onto the pillow. "I'm not sixteen anymore. You're gonna have to give me at least an hour before I'm up for another go." 

Clint freezes, his eyes going wide as he stares up at the ceiling. 

"Um... I mean..." 

"We'll talk about it," Phil promises, and the way Clint looks at him makes him think that yes, perhaps they could do this, perhaps he... 

Perhaps he _could_ have everything he was hoping for. 

Shaking his head, he smiles softly and goes to start the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you weren't expecting that, were you? ;)


	13. Chapter 13

There's a stupid sort of warmth curled up in Phil's belly as he waits for the coffee to percolate. Silly to be so contented, so complacent when he feels like he might be sitting on a powder keg, but there it is. 

Kind of hard not to feel like the world has gone ten different kinds of perfect though, when he'd stepped out of the shower to find the love of his life dozing in his bed. 

Phil sighs and drags a hand down over his face, swamped by the certainty that it's already too late for him, that it was too late as soon as he'd caught sight of Clint standing there in that hallway smiling at him. He'd been so deeply in love with Clint all those years ago that he's measured every relationship he's had since against the young circus performer, and no one has ever meant as much to him. 

Given what's just happened, he thinks it's safe to say that he still has feelings for Clint. 

Unfortunately, he thinks that it might be the part of him that's still seventeen that's having those feelings, because grown-up Phil doesn't know much at all about this new, grown-up Clint. 

Well, except for the fact that he's still a damned good kisser, still has an ass that won't quit. 

Oh yes, and he has a teenaged daughter who's the spitting image of Phil's sister Beth. 

Blowing out a breath, he pours two mugs of coffee, adds a splash of cream and two spoons of sugar to Clint's before he can second guess himself. He'd always liked his coffee smooth and sweet, but things change and people mature, and Phil isn't sure... 

God, he isn't sure of anything except what he wants, and _that_ he doesn't want to admit to. 

But he's getting ahead of himself. 

"I should probably apologize," he says quietly as he steps back into the bedroom, the shower he'd left on no longer running. "I didn't, bef..." 

Phil stops dead inside the door, tries not to swallow his tongue. Clint is standing near the end of his bed, in a pair of his sweats, toweling his hair dry, and he is completely and absolutely shirtless. 

"For what?" Clint asks, his voice muffled before he pops his head out of the towel, and Phil quickly turns away to hide the blush on his cheeks. 

"For jumping you at the door," he says, clearing his throat as he moves around the bed to put the coffee mugs down on the endtable. "I hadn't planned that." 

"I didn't mind," Clint replies smugly, his voice coming closer as he tracks Phil around the bed. "You're still sexy as hell Phil; not sure I'd be able to sit here and have this conversation with you if we hadn't taken the edge off first." 

A hot flush creeps down Phil's spine, a sharp tickle of arousal that is painfully familiar even after all this time. Clint had always had a leonine quality to him, and even caught up the middle of his bad-boy phase Phil had felt like prey when being stalked by the archer. It's... nice to know that he'd aged well, that Clint was still attracted to him, but the rest, _taking the edge off..._

"Right," he mumbles, tracing his fingers around the rim of the mugs on the table. "Of course..." 

"Hey." 

Phil does his best not to flinch as arms slide around his waist, then sighs and collapses back into the warmth and the strength of the embrace Clint wraps around him. He tucks his face into the curve of Phil's neck, busses his check, and oh yes, Phil remembers this as well, the easy affection, how freely tactile Clint was when they were alone. 

"Don't do that," Clint murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You were always more than that to me, even that first time." 

Phil thinks he must make some kind of small, hurt sound, because Clint's arms tighten around him for a minute before letting him go, hands coming around to rest on Phil's hips. 

"Just so you know," he says quietly. "Sixteen-year-old me is still very much in love with seventeen-year-old you. I don't know what that means for us now, I don't know where we go from here, but mmph!" 

He kisses him. 

Jumps right back in again and kisses him, having turned in his arms and grabbed him by the nape of his neck just likes he remembers doing that very first time so long ago, under the lights of a rickety carousel. It's stupid, it's so stupid to even risk losing his heart to this man a second time, but there had always been something in Clint that had pulled at him, and of all the things that have changed, _that_ is not one of them. 

"I don't know what this means," Clint murmurs against his mouth, his eyes closed as he presses his forehead to Phil's. "I don't know what you want from us Phil, but I..." 

_Us._

Reaching down, Phil grabs Clint's hand and brings it up to his chest, spreads it out over his left pectoral, the thick, twisted scar that splits his tattoo right down the middle. Clint blinks at him, his eyes flick down, and Phil knows the moment he realizes what he's looking at – the hawk – because he goes still the way he used to when he was shooting, when he had his bow at full draw and his target in his sights. 

_"Phil..."_

"I looked for you," he hears himself say, in a voice that's hoarse and broken. "After my first deployment, I was home on leave for almost a year. I looked for you, tracked down Carson's... caught up with them in Georgia. You were gone, and no one would tell me anything, and I'd never even asked you your last name..." 

"I got pregnant." 

Clint's words fall between them like the boom of thunder, like a resounding drum of truth that echoes inside his chest, a truth he'd known but which hadn't yet been spoken out loud. Phil's breath catches in his chest and he feels himself go cold, and he wonders if this is it, if this is the moment that things all fall apart. He's still holding Clint's hand tight against his heart, the rough pads of his fingertips tracing what's left of the hawk, the arrow clutched in its talons, and it's a comfort that he's not pulling away. 

"I got pregnant," he says again, small and quiet and wounded. "And they wouldn't..." 

Clint blinks and this time he does pull away, swipes roughly at his eyes though his cheeks are dry. 

"Carson said they couldn't have a knocked-up omega on the ticket," he says roughly, rounding the bed and climbing back onto Phil's sheets, sitting back against the headboard. "Trick nearly beat me senseless when he found out." 

Phil swallows hard, sits down beside him close enough that their shoulders touch. 

He remembers Trickshot, Clint's bastard of a mentor, but he hadn't realized the abuse was physical, hadn't thought the vicious words that a cocky, teenaged Clint had brushed off with a laugh and a grin were anything more than that. 

If he had, he would have... 

God, what _would_ he have done? 

"They ditched me in Missouri," Clint says quietly, leaning heavily against Phil's side until he shifts around and opens his arms, lets Clint practically crawl into his lap to lean back against his chest. "I thumbed it back to Iowa, dragged Barney's pathetic ass back with me. He was already a useless drunk by then, but he was eighteen so he was at least good for something. He was able to get his name on the old house, collect on mom's insurance. We did ok. But..." 

Phil glances down, catches Clint biting his lip in an old show of nerves. 

"He wanted me to get rid of it," he says quietly, and Phil feels the hair on his forearms stand up. "The baby. He wanted me to have an abortion, or... but I couldn't do it. It was yours, and she was _ours,_ and I was never mad at you for leaving Phil, I just..." 

"Shh, no baby, don't cry," Phil pleads, wrapping his arms around Clint and nuzzling at his temple, peppering kisses over his jaw, tears salty on his lips and prickly in his own eyes. "Don't cry. God if I had known Clint, I never would've left you the way I..." 

"Wasn't your fault," Clint sniffs, wiping his cheeks before chuckling under his breath. "Well, it _was._ It was _both_ our _faults,_ but I never blamed you for leaving. We both knew it was gonna end that way. Might not have been ready for it, might not have _wanted_ it to end that way, but I always knew you were gonna go." 

The two of them are quiet for a moment, no doubt reliving that whirlwind summer, the intense, unprecedented depth of emotion they'd fallen into in so few months. 

"She's beautiful Phil," Clint murmurs suddenly, and Phil has to squeeze his eyes shut tight, bite down on the inside of his cheek. "She's so strong, and so brave, and... and she reminds me of you more and more every day." 

"I'd like to get to know her." 

A profound silence follows Phil's cautious declaration, and a dozen reasons for it immediately go crashing through his mind. Every single one of them hurts and he knows he goes still before he attempts to pull away, to distance himself from that possibility, but Clint is quick to turn around in his lap and lay a hand on his chest, flat over his heart. 

"No, listen," he insists, but Phil scowls because he hadn't been so keen on explaining himself a second ago. "Phil, please? I... I want that ok? I mean, I _like_ you. I still... Look, this is probably weird, right?" he asks, levering himself upright. "I never thought I'd see you again, let alone that you'd be my kid's principal. _Our_ kid's..." 

Phil blows out a breath, runs a hand through his hair. There's so much to unpack here he doesn't know where to start, but if he starts thinking about the fact that he has a teenage daughter he's never met there's no way he'll be able to get through _this_ part of it first. 

"When it was just the two of us," Clint says slowly, quite obviously taking care with his words, "I wanted it to be three. I mean, I thought about it you know? At first, all the time, obviously, but... later. Months later, years later, still..." 

Clint takes a deep breath, broad, bare shoulders rising and falling. 

"I told her about you," he admits, and Phil feels his heart thump in his chest. "All of it, everything I could remember. Well... most of it anyways," he adds with a lascivious smirk, and Phil frowns. 

"Nice." 

"Just, I told her how much that summer meant," he explains. "How much it was... like another world. I loved you Phil, I might _still_ love you, but she's my daughter and she's fifteen and she... she's old enough to have a say in this. I know she's half yours and you have rights and you could probably take her away from me if you wanted to but I..." 

"Woah, hey, hey!" he yelps, stunned, cutting off Clint's increasingly frantic babble by taking his face between his hands. "Clint. Is this what _you're_ afraid of, or what _she's_ afraid of?" 

"Both, maybe?" he replies, sounding unbearably nervous and unsure. "I don't..." 

"Listen to me baby," Phil says, his turn to insist and make himself understood. "I will _never_ take her away from you, ok? And if... if either of you need me to officially give up my legal rights to feel safe then that's what I'll do." 

"Is that what you want?" 

No. 

Hell no. 

Just thinking about it puts a rock in his throat that he can hardly breath around, that he can't swallow, and he _hates_ the idea of losing them when he's only just found them again, of walking away from Clint a second time and never getting to know his daughter at all. 

God, his _daughter..._

"I want more of this," he says quietly, brushing his thumb back and forth over Clint's cheekbone, because now, like then, when he was still a messed-up teenager angry at the world, the man in front of him is the only thing he's sure of. "I want to get to know this new Clint Barton, and his daughter. I'd... I'd like to get to know _mine."_

The smile on Clint's face is all hope and awe, _relief,_ and yes, Phil thinks, it really is far too late for him. 

He'd given his heart away once, and only now does he realize that he'd never really gotten it back. The man he'd given it to still holds it, and he's spent the entirety of his adult life living in its absence, a scar as real as the physical one etched across his chest. 

Now, for the first time in a very long time, he thinks he has a chance of healing that wound.


	14. Chapter 14

"Ugh, he's probably having _sex_ with him _right... now..."_ Kate groans flicking a piece of pepperoni off her pizza dispassionately. 

America giggles and rolls over onto her stomach, her head hanging off the edge of her bed as she reaches down to snag another slice from the open box. 

"Ew!" she complains, wrinkling her nose. "That's your _dad_ you're talking about. Dads? Either way, ew." 

"I mean it's gross right?" Kate asks, sitting up and folding her legs beneath her as she bites into hot, cheesy goodness. "They're just so... _old."_

"Exactly," America agrees, bobbing her head along to the Katy Perry music playing quietly from her laptop. "I mean, AP Coulson's cool and all, but like, it's a little weird." 

"What, that he's probably my dad, or that he's probably _banging_ my dad?" Kate grumbles. _"Again."_

"Oh, _stoppppp..."_

Kate grins in spite of herself, drops her crust onto her plate and wipes her hands so she can climb up onto the bed. It feels good to make America laugh, _and_ it takes her mind off the horrifying prospect of her dad getting naked with her principal. 

Just... no. 

"So what are you gonna do?" 

"About which part?" Kate huffs, rolling onto her back at America's side, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to her ceiling. "I'm probably a social pariah by now, and I might be the principal's kid - I might as well drop out and become a starving hipster artist." 

"Please do not do that," America groans, sitting up for a sip of her Coke. "There are enough hipsters in the world as it is. Besides, Cassie took care of it." 

Kate looks around sharply, her eyes wide. 

"What?!" 

"Yeah," America says with an easy shrug. "She had an ace in the back pocket she's been _dying_ to use – said this was the perfect opportunity." 

"What did she do?" Kate asks, stunned that Cassie, who she honestly wasn't that close with, would use up her trump card for _her._

"Get this," America says conspiratorially, leaning in close and lowering her voice. "She actually _saw_ Superintendent Fury!" 

"Wait, seriously?" 

"Yeah," America nods fervently. "She says she got out from cheerleading late one day and was trying to break into the science lab, and she saw him in the hallway. She says he's this _huge_ black guy and he's bald with an eyepatch and a big, leather coat." 

Kate leans back, cocks an eyebrow, an expression of disbelief pushing itself onto her face. 

"I know, right?" America gesticulates widely. "Can you believe that? I mean, I'm not sure I believe it either but she swears up and down, she saw him." 

"What was she doing trying to break into the science lab?" Kate hears herself ask, because for some reason that stands out as the weirdest part of all this, the thing the truth hinges on. 

"Oh, she just wanted to sneak in and ogle Dr. Banner," America snickers, brushing her hand through the air. "She thinks he's _dreamy._ To be honest that's the reason I believe her - it's totally something she would do." 

America grins at her and Kate smiles, feels her cheeks get warm. 

"So um, what did she..." 

"She told Tommy. She 'let it slip' right before last period," America snorts, using literal finger quotes. "She says half the school was talking about it by the time it let out." 

Flopping onto her back again, America lolls her head to the side to look at her, reaches out her hand to grab Kate's. 

"Don't worry," she says. "I've gotten texts from seven people already. Nobody'll even remember by Monday. If they do, they won't care." 

"Oh." 

"So," America smiles, shaking Kates hand before letting go of it. "That's one problem solved?" 

"Yeah," she mumbles, tucking her hair behind her ear shyly before saying it again, stronger this time. "Yeah. Thanks, America. For everything." 

America just smiles at her, and it's a warm, bright, happy thing that Kate feels all the way down to her toes. 

"No problem girl." 

"At least I don't have to worry about facing the _kids,"_ she says huffs, leaning back against the wall and crossing her arms across her chest, watching America bob her head and her feet to the beat of the Ramones, playing quietly in the background. "How am I ever gonna look my _principal_ in the face again?" 

"Well, I mean... _is_ he gonna be your principal?" 

"What do you mean?" Kate asks, a weight suddenly sitting heavy in her stomach. 

She knows exactly what she means. 

"Well..." America bites her lip, blushes, looks unsure. "I guess it's just, _is_ he going to be your principal, or... is he going to be something else?" 

Kate doesn't answer. 

Not for a long time anyway. 

She doesn't know what she wants, and she's terrified of a dozen things – Coulson taking her away from her dad, Coulson taking her dad away from _her,_ being... being left behind. 

He'd done it once, left them, and she knows it's not fair to be mad at him for that because from what her dad has told her, that was always the plan. 

But... 

"Do you think your dad's gonna start dating him?" 

"Yes," Kate says immediately, before she even realizes that she knows the answer. "I mean, he _wants_ to. I guess if I told him I didn't want him to he might _not,_ but..." 

"But you don't wanna do that?" 

"Not really." 

Sighing, Kate draws her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them and props up her chin. 

"I don't wanna hurt him." 

"Are you scared?" America asks quietly, and Kate nods. 

Rolling upright, she tucks herself in against Kate's side and rests her head on Kate's shoulder.

**AVAVA**

Phil makes him dinner.

It's a simple thing, but Clint doesn't expect it, so it's nice. 

To be honest, he was maybe kind of expecting to be subtlety shown the door, even though that's a stupid thing to expect with Phil, even this new Phil. 

He still moves the same, like the bad-boy is still hiding just under the surface. 

He still _smells_ the same, and that maybe throws Clint off more than anything, but he can't help but steal up behind the guy as he stands at the stove stirring vegetables on a grill pan, wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face in the curve of Phil's neck. 

"I missed this," Phil says quietly, swaying just a little to the jazz record playing softly in the background. "I didn't even realize really. It was always one of my favorite things about you." 

"What?" Clint murmurs, rubbing his cheek against Phil's shoulder like a cat, soaking up the warmth and the closeness. 

"How tactile you are," Phil explains, leaning forward to turn off the heat. "That you always wanted to hold my hand, or the way you'd stand behind me with your chin on my shoulder. The way you slept when we..." 

"Always worried I was too clingy," Clint confesses, tightening his arms around Phil for just a moment before letting him go, stepping back so that he could safely carry the veggies to the counter where a drizzle in a homemade, sticky teriyaki sauce awaits them. "With you though, with you I always felt safe. Told myself not to cause I didn't want to run you off, but you were there and you were safe and I loved you so damn much Phil..." 

He watches as Phil tosses the grilled veggies, slices chicken from the oven and plates them artfully. 

"Broke my heart when you left." 

He doesn't mean to say it. 

Hadn't realized that he was going to until it was already out of his mouth and he couldn't call it back. 

It was a piece, a very small piece of him that he had always meant to hold on to, had never intended to share with Kate or Nat or anyone, especially not Phil. 

It was glass, a small sliver of glass embedded deep in the skin, a callous grown around it after all this time so it only cuts when you bump it just right. 

Now, the look on Phil's face as he turns toward him tells him he was right to keep it, because Phil looks like he's been cut to ribbons too, his own heart screaming and vulnerable and bleeding out. 

"It broke mine too," he says softly, and his voice is low and rough and hoarse, like he's holding back tears. 

This time he's the one to come to Clint, steps into his embrace and leans against his chest, his face tucked against Clint's throat in a reversal of their previous position. 

"I didn't want to leave you the way I did," he says, words grinding as his fingers clench in fabric of the t-shirt Clint had thrown on. "Sneaking out like you were some secret, like you hadn't meant _everything_ to me." 

"I never thought that," Clint murmurs, stroking up and down Phil's back. 

"I just knew that if you had asked me to stay I would have stayed," Phil explains desperately, and Clint feels a wide, happy grin break across his face. 

_"That,"_ he says, drawing back to look Phil in the eye, to press a quick kiss to his lips, "I _did_ know." 

"You..." 

"I knew that Phil," he insists gently, bringing his hands up to cup his face sweetly. "I knew you loved me as much as I loved you – you never let me believe anything different." 

The look of relief on Phil's face is so immense that Clint thinks his knees must go weak with it. Letting him go, he snags one of Phil's hands and threads their fingers together, squeezes reassuringly. 

"I was never mad that you left, I promise," he says, smacking another kiss to the back of his hand. "Disappointed yeah, heartsick, but not _at_ you." 

"We weren't supposed to fall in love," Phil marvels, and Clint can see the young man he'd met all those years ago on his face, in his eyes. "It was just supposed to be a summer fling." 

"Best summer of my life," Clint agrees breathlessly, and it's stupid and sappy and ridiculous that yes, even after all this time, this man can make him feel that way. 

They stand there grinning at each other like (as Katie would put it) total dorks, before remembering that there's food on the counter getting cold and heading into the small dining room off Phil's kitchen. He's got a really nice place now that Clint actually stops to look, but he keeps his mouth shut about it because in the back of his head he knows he's scoping it out, looking at it as if a family of three lived there instead of a single bachelor. Doesn't seem like it's the right time to bring something like that up, so he just tangles his feet with Phil's under the table and stuffs some stir-fry into his mouth. 

An hour later, they're cuddling on the couch in front of an episode of Dog Cops, Phil sitting in the corner and Clint lying flat out with his head in Phil's lap. The used to do this all the time, out in the fields, under the big top, and Phil's hands card absently through Clint's hair just the way they used to, and he knows it's too soon, knows it's too early, but he never wants to leave this spot again, doesn't want to spend another day without this man now that he's finally gotten him back. 

It's kind of killing him. 

"Why the long face?" Phil asks softly, and when Clint glances up, he's not even looking at him, his eyes firmly on the television. 

That's why he loved him all those years ago, that right there. 

He and Phil had clicked, understood each other, and they still do. 

Phil knows exactly why he's upset, what he's thinking about, but he still gives him the space to work it out for himself. 

"It's too soon for me to stay the night," he says, half pouting, half serious, because it's easier than the rest. 

Phil smiles down at him wryly, smooths his thumb over Clint's brow. 

"I know what you mean," he murmurs, and Clint doesn't doubt it. "I... is that the way this is going Clint?" 

It's his turn to smile, soft and shy. 

"Yeah. I hope so." 

"So... what do I need to do?" 

Yeah. 

That too. 

He does that too. 

"What do _we_ need to do," Clint corrects gently, reaching up with both hands to hold Phil's face upside-down, unable to keep his hands to himself. "This is an _us_ thing. You're her dad too Phil, as much as I am, even if... even if it doesn't feel that way right now. I think she'll really like you, once she gives you a chance." 

"Will she though? She doesn't owe me that." 

Clint wants to disagree, wants Phil to be wrong. He truly, truly believes Kate will like him, but that belief is all tangled up with his own, bone-deep need for them all to be one big happy family, and that makes it hard to trust himself. He knows too that Kate isn't sure about all of this, has already expressed hesitancy about adding Phil in to the mix. While he's always raised his daughter as a parent, not a friend, he still values her part in their dynamic and encourages her independence. She's fifteen – she has every right to have a say in what kind of relationship she and Phil have, if not as much in the relationship _he_ has with Phil. 

Unsettled, he squirms in place and digs his phone out of his borrowed sweats, jeans still tumbling in the dryer. 

**_YOU OK KIDDO?_**

He doesn't expect an immediate response, but with Phil watching on, wary and silent, he's relieved when he gets one. 

**I'M GOOD. YOU GOOD?**

Short, not-so-sweet, and to the point – she must be having fun with America. 

**_I'M ALWAYS GOOD KATIE-CAT._**

**SO I GUESS YOU'RE STILL AT HIS PLACE?**

Well... he always knew she was smart. 

Clint barely manages not to flinch at the accusing tone he can imagine so well, but given that Phil's fingers still in his hair and he arches one eloquent eyebrow, he figures he didn't do a great job. It's stupid – it's not like she _knows_ – but she's spent enough time with her Aunt Natasha that she'll probably be able to see it on his face tomorrow, to sense something has changed. 

He's never lied to her about Phil before. 

He doesn't want to start now. 

**_YEAH. IT'S GOING GOOD BABY, I PROMISE. WE'LL TALK TOMORROW OK?_ **

This time the response is a little longer in coming, but it means a lot more. 

**K. LOVE YOU DAD. TELL HIM I SAID HI I GUESS.**

Clint's breath catches and his heart nearly bursts in his chest. 

From the look on Phil's face when he turns the phone up toward him, his does too.


	15. Chapter 15

Clint goes home late that night with Phil’s number in his phone and a spring in his step that hasn’t been there in a long time. He loves Kate, wouldn’t trade her for the world, but as he heads back home he realizes that he’s been living his life for her for some time now. Oh, he has a few friends, like Natasha and even Bucky, and he does things for himself every once in a while, but those are few and far between, saved up for like when he bought his motorcycle, and he usually feels guilty after. 

He feels a little guilty now. 

It’s not that he lets Kate run his life. He’d come to the realization that he had to be the parent and her the child by the time she had turned six years old. If it were anyone else he wanted to date he wouldn’t even bring it up to her until it seemed like it could potentially get serious, but it’s not some random guy he picked up in a bar somewhere, it’s Phil. It’s her father, the one she’s always been so... prickly about, and he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing or where to go from here. 

And it... seems like it could potentially get serious. 

It’s stupid to get his hopes up and silly to be mooning over him already, but Clint falls asleep with the dorkiest grin on his face that he thinks he’s ever worn. 

The next day he putters around the house, plays with some of his trick arrows, goes out and buys some tape to label them all – anything to stop himself from texting because it’s too soon, it’s too soon after nearly sixteen years. He leaves the mess on the coffee table and goes to pick up Kate, and finds out he doesn’t have his expression nearly as under control as he thought as soon as she comes to the door. 

“Oh, ew, your _face,”_ she groans, dragging a hand over her own and hoisting her backpack so she can’t see. “I don’t wanna know.” 

“Thank Mrs. Chavez,” he scolds, mostly because his cheeks are burning and Amalia is looking at them with a quizzical expression, America snickering behind her. 

“Thank you!” Kate cheers, and then she’s darting back through the door and giving America one last hug before they say their final goodbyes and head back down to the truck. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks, slinging his arm around her as they walk a few paces down the street to where he’d parked. 

“Yeah,” Kate nods, letting Clint pull he in against his hip, wrapping her arm around his waist in a brief hug. “America’s really cool.” 

“Pretty too,” Clint muses, because it makes her blush and wrinkle her nose at the same time. 

“Gross,” she complains, slapping at him playfully. “It’s weird when _you_ think it!” 

“Oh, so you _do_ think she’s pretty?” he challenges with a grin, and then he’s bursting into laughter because Kate looks absolutely devastated that he’d gotten _that_ one over on her. 

“You’re being weird,” she accuses as they climb into the truck and start off back toward home. “You’re too... happy. Not that that’s _weird,_ but... you weren’t this happy yesterday.” 

Sighing heavily, all his good mood and excited energy draining away through his feet, Clint reaches across the seat and covers her hand with his, squeezes her fingers. 

“When we get home ok?” he murmurs. “We both have questions, so let's... wait till we get home.” 

Out the corner of his eye he sees Kate nod, but she draws in on herself for the rest of the ride, pulls her knees up to her chest with her feet on the dash the way he tells her not to. He can’t bring himself to scold her even though he knows he should, because there seems to be a rock in his throat and he feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff looking at his daughter across a canyon. 

They don’t talk. 

He’d said to wait, but they don’t talk at all, and that scares him. 

When they get back home Kate heads inside and trudges up the stairs like he’d actually _sent_ her to her room, but she comes back down a minute later without her bag or her shoes and he thanks his gods that he didn’t have to chase her. She’d changed into loose sweats and one of his old t-shirts, her hair up in a loose, sloppy bun, and he can do this, he knows he can. She’s not an unreasonable kid, not a crazy, rebellious teenager who does things just to piss him off – if anybody can get through this it has to be them, right? 

She flops down on the couch and pats the cushion beside her when he doesn’t move, when he just stands there staring like a statue. It’s a sharp reminder that he’s the adult as well as the one with the most information, and he kicks himself before going to sit beside her. 

“So what happened?” she asks, and he immediately has to fight down a blush remembering how he’d practically jumped Phil on his doorstep. “You said it went good.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly, reaching out to tuck a lock of loose hair behind her ear before they both settle more comfortably on the couch, turned toward each other. “Yeah, it went really good. He’s... a lot like I remember him actually.” 

Kate nods, makes a noncommittal sound, but she’d chewing her lip, just like he does when he’s nervous. 

“Katie?” he urges gently, waiting till she looks up. “Can you tell me what you’re worried about?” 

“About... what’s gonna happen I guess,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Like if I have to go live with him sometimes, or at school...” 

Clint sighs, quirks his mouth and nods when she glances up at him because he understands, he does. 

“I was scared about that too,” he admits. 

Kate looks up at him, startled, and he shakes his head, reaches out to squeeze her forearm. 

“You know I’d never let anyone take you away from me,” he says, and he can see the tension bleed out of her shoulders almost instantly. “But I didn’t want to have to leave either. We just got settled in here, and that wouldn’t be fair to you, to live like that.” 

A tear starts to roll silently down his daughter’s cheek, and he brushes it away 

“But baby, we don’t have to worry about that anymore ok?” 

“Why?” she asks, and her voice is tremulous, high-pitched and shaky with a bitten back sob. 

“Com’ere,” Clint murmurs, opening his arms, and she immediately scrambles across the cushions to huddle against his side, her face pressed against his shirt. 

“We talked about it a little,” Clint says, rubbing up and down her back the way he did when she was little. “I told him I could never give you up. He promised Kate, he promised me he wouldn’t ever try to take you away. He even said he’d sign off on his legal rights...” 

“So he’s giving us up again?” she demands brokenly, muffled by his shirt but still angry enough that it comes through the hurt, the fear. “Just like that? He doesn’t even want...” 

“Boy, you’re spinning in circles in there, aren’t you kiddo?” he huffs, partly a chuckle, part consternation. He pushes her back gently so he can look her in the eyes, her chin cupped in his palm. “It’s ok. I’m... I’m all kinds of twisted up too.” 

“This is stupid!” she growls, thumping her fists down on the couch cushions. “It’s not fair! Why can’t I just hate him, why do I have to...” 

“Because he’s your dad,” Clint says, taking her hands into his own and resting them on his knees. “Doesn’t matter what kind of dad he is – you still want him to love you.” 

Kate goes quiet as the ghost of her grandfather whispers through the room, the few things he’s told her about Harold Barton – and even Barney – a black memory that they both prefer to ignore. 

“It’s ok to be mad at him, and it’s ok to be hurt,” he says. “It’s ok to not want to see him, but still want _him_ to want to see _you._ But Kate, I don’t want you to hate him.” 

“He left you,” she argues quietly, still choked up, tears still trickling. “He left us, and he didn’t...” 

“He didn’t know,” Clint reminds her, a familiar chastisement. “You know that. He didn’t know that I was pregnant, and we both knew that he was going to leave that summer.” 

Taking her face in his hands, he wipes the tears away again, and promises himself he’ll never stop picking her up when she falls, even if he has to keep repeating his story till he’s blue in the face. It’s frustrating, and it hurts, because Clint wants things too, but he’ll never, ever stop, no matter how stubborn his beautiful daughter turns out to be. 

“I know that doesn’t make it hurt any less right now,” he says. “It hurt _me_ when he left, for a long time, and I knew it was coming. But baby, he didn’t give up on us.” 

Kate looks up at him, wariness in her eyes, and Clint thinks he might be proud of her in that moment. 

“He said he looked for us, for me,” he explains. “When he came home on leave, he tracked down Carson’s. I told you what happened, how they kicked me out when they realized I was carrying you, and the circus isn’t... they don’t help outsiders.” 

“He looked for us?” Kate squeaks, staring at his chest and sounding like she wants more than anything in the world to believe him, but doesn’t. “He...” 

“Yeah,” Clint answers, and it comes out a stupid, happy, relieved sigh. “Yeah, he did.” 

“You _believe_ him?” 

A bolt of anger flashes through him, hot and sizzling, and if it had been Natasha he would have snapped at her. He has to remind himself that it’s his daughter, that she’s still just a child and she’s scared, and take a deep breath before he answers. 

“Yes, I do,” he says firmly, letting just a little bit of his Dad-Voice bleed through, the one he uses on those rare occasions that she chooses to remind him that she’s a Difficult Teenager. “I knew him Kate, and he hadn’t changed. He’s a good man, and he doesn’t lie.” 

Kate hangs her head, looks ashamed. 

“He’s got a hawk, right here,” he says, laying his hand over his own heart. “He tattooed _my name_ over his heart Katie-Cat, or as close as he could get. Does that sound like a guy who would lie about something like that?” 

She chews her lip, eyes wet and cheeks pink, but finally she shakes her head no. 

“I didn’t think so either.” 

They sit a minute, and Clint lets the quiet pass because he knows that was a lot and he really, really wants it to sink in. If he’s read Kate right over the years, if Natasha hasn’t been laying down a misdirect all those times they talked, the real reason Kate’s been so pissed at her absent father figure is because he was just that – an absent father figure. Clint and Abandonment Issues are old buddies, and he knows how they can get you all tangled up in the head, in the heart. Hating someone you want desperately to love you is confusing and hurtful and exhausting, and Kate’s been doing it since she was old enough to talk. 

“He wants to get to know you,” Clint says cautiously, after some time has gone by. 

“I thought he wanted to sign off on his rights,” Kate argues with a scowl, looking away. 

“He doesn’t _want_ that,” he counters, gently scolding. “But he said he would, if it made _you_ feel safer.” 

“I...” 

“I know how scary this is,” Clint says, picking up her hand again and wishing she were still small, that he could lift her into his arms and wrap her up where she _was_ safe, where nothing in the world could get to her. “And I know you’re old enough to make some of your own decisions. But Kate, I want you to think about it before you make any. I’d really, really like it if you gave Phil a chance, and baby, I don’t think you’ll be sorry if you do.” 

“You’re still in love with him,” she accuses softly, and it feels like a rubber band wrapping around Clint’s heart, squeezing tight. 

“A little,” he confesses, because it’s true no matter how dumb it might be. “The part of me that’s still a teenager, yes, that part is still in love with who he was. I think the rest of me... I think maybe the rest of me could fall in love with who he is. And Kate, I really think you could love him too someday, if you wanted. I know he’ll love you.” 

“You don’t know that,” she grumbles, and Clint laughs, pulls her in and hugs her tight. 

“Sure I do,” he says, smacking a kiss to her cheek and tussling with her gently, tickling her to make her shriek because that’s better than this, better than all the heavy. “How could he resist the way you make a mess in the bathroom, or wrinkle your nose at vegetables, or play your music way too loud when you’re mad at me?” 

Kate slaps at him until she’s escaped him, doesn’t say anything but doesn’t look nearly as doomed as she had before. Clint breathes a sigh of tentative relief, cautious but... hopeful, for the first time since this all came crashing in on him. 

“Think about it,” he says again as she stands up off the couch, trying his best to keep the plea out of his voice. 

“This is what you want?” she asks, staring down at her hands as she picks at her fingernails, anything to keep from looking directly at him. “For us all to... what? Be one big happy family?” 

“Would that be so bad?” he asks, tilting his head. 

Kate huffs, straightens her shoulders and shakes her head, but not in agreement. 

“I’ll think about it,” she allows, and Clint’s a little ashamed of the way he practically melts into the couch. “But I don’t want...” 

“I know,” he says when she trails off. “He said he’ll leave you alone, at school. He wants you to want him too Kate.” 

She offers him another short nod, one of those ones that doesn’t really mean anything except that she’s heard him. He supposes he can’t really ask for more than that – he's already asking a lot of her – but he feels... ok as she turns to head back upstairs. 

“He loves you,” she says as she walks away, without looking back at him. “He doesn’t love me.” 

“He hasn’t met you yet,” Clint argues softly, watching her go. “Give him a chance. And besides, how do you know?” 

Kate scoffs, pauses on the stairs just long enough to roll her eyes at him. 

“How do _you_ know he’s got a tattoo on his chest?” 

Groaning, Clint flops over onto his back and drapes an arm over his face. 

She always was too observant for his own good.


	16. Chapter 16

Kate goes back to school feeling sick to her stomach and more afraid than she thinks she’s ever been in her whole life. Her dad drops her off with concern crinkling his forehead and she manages to conjure up half a grin in an effort to reassure him, but he still lingers at the bottom of the steps until the car behind him honks its horn. He rolls away slowly and she watches the motorcycle until it disappears into the crowd, then turns and darts inside intent on finding America. 

No sign of Principal Coulson, thank god. 

She doesn’t... 

Well, she doesn’t know what she does or doesn’t. 

The talk she’d had with her dad on Saturday had helped, a lot, and she... she knows what _he_ wants. 

She can see it on his face already, even though he’d been so careful to stay off his phone, to not bring it up after that. Maybe he’s not mooning around making sappy faces at his text messages, or pushing her for answers she doesn’t have, but she knows what he wants. 

She finds America waiting at their lockers and spends the rest of the day hiding in her shadow, letting her loom above her or angle in front of her, letting her _hover._ She doesn’t think about what that might mean, just takes the protection that’s offered, and feels all the more stable for it. 

It doesn’t stop her from walking around on high alert all day, checking around every corner, but it helps. 

“Don’t worry,” America murmurs at lunch, tearing a homemade tahini-brownie in half to share. “You’ll bump into him coming out of class or something, and when that first crash is over, it won’t be so bad.” 

She doesn’t know if she believes it until it happens just that way. 

It’s not fair really. She’s nearly home free, coming out of her last class as the bell jangles overhead, America and Cassie beside her when they round the corner into the main hall and nearly slam right into him. Kate immediately takes a step back because he’s looking right at her, eyes a little wide as he traces her face, but then he blinks and turns to Cassie and answers whatever question she’d asked like nothing weird had happened at all. 

Like Kate was any other student. 

“... sure that you aren’t spreading rumors again Miss Lang,” he says calmly, giving her a stern look. “You remember what happened last time. Dr. Banner still turns green at the sound of anything the even _remotely_ rhymes with the word hamster.” 

“But it’s not a rumor Principal Coulson!” Cassie insists. “I really did see Superintendent Fury! He really does have a leather coat and an eye patch and...” 

“Yes, but you failed to mention the peg-leg,” he says in a perfect deadpan delivery. “So you must have been mistaken.” 

Kate barks a laugh, doesn’t mean to, but it comes bubbling up out of her before she can stop it and she immediately claps a hand over her mouth. 

For a second, a split second when he looks at her his face softens, but then he’s nodding to them shortly and walking off again with nothing more than a quiet _"ladies”_ as a farewell. 

Nothing. 

“See,” America says with a grin. “Not so bad. Feel better?” 

She... 

No. 

No, she does not feel better and that doesn’t make any sense and she hates it! 

“I can’t tell if he was messing with me or if he was totally serious and that really _wasn’t_ Superintendent Fury I saw that day,” Cassie says as they start heading toward the doors again. “But I mean, who else could it have been?” 

Her chatter fills up the silence as they all grab their bookbags and head back outside, Kate’s mind whirling. She looks down the steps toward the parking lot and breathes a huge sigh of relief when she sees her dad sitting on his bike in the pick-up line, rolling slowly forward. She’d had half a nightmare thought earlier that she’d have to sit outside the Principal’s Office like a delinquent while he sat inside talking about her with her... 

She can’t say it, not even in her own head. 

Can’t call him _dad_ or _papa_ or anything. 

He doesn’t act like her dad, hadn’t even said hello to her, why should she... 

God it’s so stupid! 

She doesn’t care what her dad says – it's stupid and it doesn’t make _any_ sense that she wants to have it both ways. 

She _can’t_ have it both ways. 

So... 

So which way does she want it more? 

Suddenly feeling like she’s about to burst into tears, she says a quick goodbye, squeezes America’s hand, and bolts down the steps away from the school, jumping onto the back of the motorcycle and hiding underneath her helmet. 

She spends the rest of the ride pretending that the difference doesn’t make her feel better. 

As soon as they get back home, she kicks off her shoes hard, slamming them up against the wall before throwing her backpack down onto the couch. Her dad cocks an eyebrow at her sudden temper-tantrum but doesn’t say anything, just stands there with his hands in his pockets looking lost, and that pisses her off ever more. 

He’s the parent, he’s supposed to know what he’s doing, where to go from here, it’s not... it’s not fair! 

This shouldn’t have to be her decision! 

“It’s not,” her dad says, and her whole body goes cold as she realizes she’d said that last bit out loud. “It’s _our_ decision, together, as a family.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna _make_ it!” she snaps, dragging her fingers through her hair and pulling. “And before you ask, yes, I saw him, and yes, it was all fine; he didn’t even say a word to me! So whoopee, I managed to survive another day at school, like every other teenager in the world that _doesn’t_ have to deal with this crap!” 

She’s shouting by the end. 

She can feel tears hot on her cheeks, and she wants to stomp her feet, scream as loud as she can. 

Her dad is frowning at her, his legit frown, not the good, worried frown, and she knows she’s in trouble. 

“I wasn’t going to ask that,” he begins, slow and clear, because he’s always so damn careful not to get mad at her, not to scream right back when she knows he wants to, and that just makes her madder. “I was going to ask what was wrong and if you...” 

“No!” she screeches, “I don’t want to talk about it! Everything, literally _everything_ about this _sucks,_ and it’s not my fault! You didn’t ask, but you _wanted_ to know, didn’t you? You looked at me just like he did, waiting for some kind of answer like it’s my futzing job to give you permission!” 

“Are you done?” he asks calmly. 

Kate freezes. 

She’s not, oh, she’s not, but all of a sudden she’s exhausted and just wants to curl up and cry. She wants him to hug her and hold her and tell her what they’re going to do next, that it’s all going to be alright. 

But that’s his code word, his tap-out, and she knows it. 

He’s too mad right now to do anything but send her to her room to cool off. 

“Go upstairs,” he says, because her shoulders have already caved in and she’s already starting to hiccough she’s crying so hard, and it must be pretty obvious that she knows she’s messed up. “Take some time to think about what you need to say. In a half hour, if you’ve calmed down, we’ll try all this again.” 

Kate nods miserably, knows he’s right but still hates him for it a little, and trudges to her room.

**AVAVA**

Clint watches her go and as soon as he hears her bedroom door click shut he collapses onto the couch, heaving a sigh that goes all the way down to his soul. She’s the only person on the planet that can make his hands shake the way they’re doing now, and he presses them over his eyes in a big to get himself under control.

He should have seen this coming of course, but he’s always seen better from a distance. Any kid would have a hard time with something like this, and his Katie is a firecracker hellion when she’s having a bad day. They’re few and far-between, thank god, but it’s easy to get complacent and treat her like she’s older than her years, and he realizes that maybe he’s been doing that. 

He’d meant what he said – it was a decision for them to make together – but maybe he’s been putting too much of the emphasis on her, maybe he’s been giving her too much responsibility. He can admit by now that he wants certain things, for himself and for his daughter, and he thinks that that’s probably leaked through pretty badly if what Kate had said was true. 

She sees things even better than he does sometimes. 

Groaning, Clint scrubs his hands over his face and goes into the kitchen for a glass of water. Leaning against the counter, he thinks back over all the accusations that Kate had just hurled at him, rapid-fire arrows from a bow. They’d stung – it always stings when this happens – but he’s gotten pretty good at controlling his temper, acknowledging all the little things that go into creating a blow-up like that. He’s not scared anymore that he’ll reach out and slap her the way his father had done to him, but he hasn’t been able to retrain the way he responds, going sniper-still and calm. 

He knows in a way that doesn’t help. 

It’s not nearly as rewarding to fight with someone who doesn’t fight back. 

They’ll have to talk about that, about the yelling and the cursing and the throwing stuff. She doesn’t usually get that way, and he’s glad cause he hates grounding her. She’s such a good kid most of the time that he always feels a little silly when he does have to punish her for something, but what just happened wasn’t ok. She knows it too – he could tell from the way she’d crumbled there at the end – but over the years he’s learned that he has to do the hard stuff if he wants her to grow up into a stable, capable adult. 

But that part will be the easy part. 

The rest of it, the reason behind Kate’s little meltdown – that's going to be harder to deal with. 

Abandoning the kitchen, he heads into the tiny dinette area. There’s enough room for a little table and four chairs there, but Clint doesn’t think they’ve eaten at it once. Between the fletching rig and all the loose arrowheads, there isn’t room for so much as an extra fork there. Pulling out a chair he sits down and places an arrow into the rig, starts it spinning to look for imperfections. 

He’d started fletching when he was a kid in the circus. The very first time he’d wrecked an arrow by hitting it with another, stripping off the feathers, Buck had knocked him so hard on the back of the head he’d seen stars. His mentor had dragged him out of the tent by the scruff of his neck and thrown him down at the old, ramshackle rig they’d had and promptly taught him how to fix his mess, and he’d been doing it ever since. 

Of course, by now it’s not just the necessity and the economy of it that matter. By now, it’s something he enjoys, something that he’s good at and takes pride in. More importantly, it’s soothing. Used to be that when his head got all tangled up like this he could just run off to the woods or to the range, anywhere he could find a target, and shoot until his head had cleared again. Having a kid kind of put a crimp in that style, because even if he wasn’t dealing with the fallout and subsequent debrief brought on by temper tantrums and crying fits, he couldn’t exactly disappear. No, he’d had to find a different coping skill, something smaller, quieter, more sedate, that could be done from home with a fussy baby in a crib in the next room or a fussy teenager upstairs. 

Going back to his roots, making his own arrows, it’s been a godsend, finding that again. 

A half hour passes before he knows it. 

He’s not surprised when Katie comes sneaking silently down the stairs, wrapped up in a purple hoodie he’d thought he lost at the gym. It’s about ten sizes too big on her, hangs to her knees and down to her fingertips, but she’s pulled her hair back and washed her face so she looks better, even if she’s still pale and red-eyed. Sighing, he offers her a crooked, tired smile and gets to his feet, opening up his arms to her. 

She crashes into him so hard he nearly ends up on the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” she chokes, and he strokes the top of her head with his free hand, keeping her close with the other. “I’m sorry I yelled. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I... I’m sorry for what I said.” 

“I think you’re probably just scared,” he says softly, squeezing her tight before stepping back to look her in the eye. “But Kate, we need to _talk_ about that, not blow up at each other, ok?” 

Sniffling, she nods miserably, unable to hold his gaze. 

“Thank you for apologizing,” he murmurs, because he’s always tried so hard to focus on positive reinforcement instead of punishment. “I appreciate that. I know you’re going through a lot right now, so I get where the frustration is coming from, but you can’t just be walking in the door and unleashing hell on me. That’s not fair and it’s not good for you either.” 

“I’m allowed to be angry,” she mumbles shame-facedly, reflecting back one of his well-worn rules, “But I’m not allowed to be aggressive.” 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “So. Can you tell me what happened at school that’s got you so hot?” 

“It’s stupid,” she scoffs, but she’s already moving into the living room toward the couch so he doesn’t reply, just follows along behind. “He just...” 

“He what?” Clint asks, his chest going all cold and tight, because aw hell Phil, what... 

“He ignored me.” 

Time stops. 

He’s pretty sure his heart does to. 

She says it so quietly, so brokenly that he barely hears, and it hurts, oh does it hurt, but it’s also one of the best things she’s ever said because it sends hope coursing through him like a river. 

“He... he saw me in the hall,” she continues, picking at her nails. “Almost bumped into me. But he just... he just looked at me and then started talking to Cassie, like I was any other kid there, not...” 

“Oh baby,” Clint murmurs, reaching over to tug her across the cushions, pull her sideways to lean against his chest. “I’m sorry.” 

Kate starts crying again, just a little, and he lets her cling, lets her get the tears out. After a few minutes, when she’s calmed down again, he lets her sit up and pull away, watches as she swipes at her cheeks. 

“Stupid,” she says again, sounding much more like her grumbly self after an argument, even if it’s a front. “That’s what I wanted.” 

“Hey, not stupid,” he corrects, tugging lightly on her ponytail. “We talked about this, remember? You’re allowed to want him to want you.” 

“Even if I’m mad?” 

“Even if you’re mad. You... you didn’t yell at _him_ did you?” 

“Ugh, _no,”_ Kate huffs, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh, I see how it is,” he jokes, relieved, god, so relieved that she’s perking up a little. “Just save it all up for me, huh?” 

“I didn’t mean to,” she mumbles, blushing. “I didn’t _know_ I was gonna...” 

“I know,” Clint reassures her. “But part of what you said was true – it's not fair of either of us to put this decision on you. I’m sorry about that. I want you to be involved and I want you to have a say, but I never meant to make you think I wanted your permission. I never meant to put that kind of pressure on you.” 

“I know you wanna see him again,” she says carefully, and Clint sighs cause yeah, he does. 

He expects her to keep going, to have some kind of argument or objection, but she doesn’t. 

Makes him wonder... 

“Ok,” he declares, clapping her on the knee. “Executive Dad Decision – we both give him a chance.” 

Kate’s head snaps up and she glares at him with a little of that angry fire in her eyes, opening her mouth to argue. It’s probably instinctive – she's still a teenager and she hates his Executive Dad Decisions – but he holds up a hand to stop her, shakes his head. 

“No, this is fair Kate, to everybody,” he rationalizes. “It’s fair for both of us to give him a chance and try this out, and it’s fair that I’m the one to make that decision. I’m the dad, I... probably should have done that in the first place.’ 

He trails off a little, chewing his lip, because while he _does_ believe that this is the fairest thing for all of them, he still wonders if it’s the _right_ thing. It’s only fair that Kate gets a say – she's fifteen and if she doesn’t want to she shouldn’t have to... 

“Ok.” 

“What?” he asks, startled. 

“Ok,” Kate repeats, calmly, simply. She opens her mouth to say something, then clearly stops herself, shrugging. “I guess at least this way I can blame anything that happens on you.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Clint replies, a little dumbly because he hadn’t expected her to accept this so easily, but it’s clear she’s trying to make a joke.

Maybe... maybe it really _did_ take the angst and pressure off her if she didn't feel like it was her decision.

“So what happens now.” 

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly, “But you don’t have to worry about it anymore ok? I don’t want you to be miserable at school, or dwelling on it at home. I’ll talk to him, and I’ll decide what we do next, ok?” 

Kate stares at him for a long time, then nods and slumps against his side. 

“Ok. Can we... can we just watch some Dog Cops or something now?” 

“Yeah,” Clint sighs, swamped with relief and something a little like anticipation, a little like hope. “Yeah baby, we can do that.”


End file.
